


Red Thicket

by methdeatal



Series: Gay baby sound [1]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Background too-ticky/mymble jr, CREeper aaawwh yeahh, Canon-typical shenanigans, He is also trans but its not very important to da story, Joxter has terrible memory problems, Loneliness, M/M, More ocs than socially acceptable, Mutual Pining, Phone Calls, Snufkin is bad at drawing, Snufkin is ginger and feral and stinky yes this a controversial piece, They're a little older in this fic, just guys being dudes, no beta im illiterate, they use dishsoap as shampoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-01-31 11:16:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 51,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methdeatal/pseuds/methdeatal
Summary: Moomin has been waking up from hibernation more and more as the years pass on by. This winter in particular is no different, and he isn't sure if he is able to stand the loneliness this time.





	1. Herring Pot Pie

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually mostly in Snufkin's perspective idk why i phrased the summary like dat lol i was never good at those..  
> sorry for any mistakes i am very stupid and irish and i spell colour with a U and i cant read

On some sort of warm, foggy July evening, Snufkin sat primly in his usual spot by the river. His dress and leather boots were thrown precariously near the bridge to be washed later- for now, he stuck his socks out in front of him and stared dejectedly into the comb of his mouth organ. Biscuit crumbs settled and caked up its tinny insides. So much so- that if he were to try and blow into the reeds (as is customary for such a fine evening) a very sad and tuneless noise would wheeze out of the other end.  
He tugged at his underthings and made a noise of deep irritation, placing it back in its bed of grass and earth. _If only I hadn't traded my flute for those coffee beans last winter._

But before Snufkin could feel very sad, something quite round and frantic sounded loud, heavy footsteps in the grass and startled him into whipping his head around.

"Snufkin! Snufkin, oh, help!"

Moomin almost crashed straight into him. Instead, he scrambled to break the run- the grass tearing underneath his weight- and he grabbed onto Snufkin's shoulders for leverage.  
"Oh! Oh, thank goodness!"

Snufkin grabbed his hat by the rim and tipped it dazedly. "Good evening, Moomin. You very nearly killed us."

"Ohh!" Moomin wailed desperately and let go of his shoulders. He slapped his paws over his closed eyes. "I'm sorry- but it's just so awful!"

"Whatever's the matter?"

"Your Kropotkin books-! I dropped them into the frog pond! They're all so very soggy and spoilt, and oh-"

It was at this point that Moomin started to cry very loudly and shake at the joints. Snufkin could only sit in the grass and blink stupidly for half a second before standing and taking his friend by his own fuzzy shoulders.  
"Moomintroll, you know you're asthmatic; keep it together or you'll surely die."

"I want to die!!" Moomin cried, his poor face wet and red with tears.

"No, you don't. Calm down and sit with me."

He caught Moomin's paw in his own and gently tugged him towards his old summer-coloured tent nearby. Moomin cried and cried; squeezing his friend tightly and repeating the same wobbly apology over and over- "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Never-mind," said Snufkin kindly, stopping by the zipper of the tent and tugging it upwards. "I've read them all anyway. I have their fond memory."

The two friends crawled inside and sat on the warm tarpaulin (or rather, one of Moominmamma's old sheets, painted with tar to waterproof it), leaving the zipper open so that the hot, stale air could float away and be replaced with the fresh kind. Moomin stuck his snout into his lap and bent his back rather uncomfortably as not to stray into Snufkin's personal space.

"I'm getting rather big for your tent," he sniffed miserably.

That all was true. Moomintroll was getting rather big for most things nowadays, including his own patchwork bed at home. He was 'a man', as of late, putting it in the troll's own preferred terms.  
Snufkin stayed as small as he liked.

"Never-mind," said Snufkin again, rummaging in his knapsack for his tin of ginger biscuits. "I suppose this tent is rather threadbare after all. I've had it for seven summers. Maybe it's about time I made a new one."

"Haven't you ever thought of buying one? You can get the waterproof type, and then you wouldn't have to sleep on the verandah when it rains horribly."

"Hmm."  
He prised open the tin with his little dark paws and shook it shyly in Moomin's direction so that the biscuits rattled around. Moomin took several.  
"I quite like sleeping on your verandah. It's such a lovely colour after we painted it last year."

"Yes..." Moomintroll sighed happily through a mouthful of orange biscuit. "Green is my favourite. Next to blue, of course- but one gets tired of blue after so many hours of sitting in it. Do you ever get tired of green?"

Snufkin pawed at his hat. "No."

The next while was spent without much being said. Moomintroll eventually stretched out so that he was curled up near the tent's entrance; his tail between his legs, waving and twitching lazily as if swatting invisible flies. He closed his red eyes and helped himself to the rest of Snufkin's biscuits. Snufkin didn't mind terribly- he wasn't fond of the spice. Perhaps if he asked very nicely, Moominmamma would make the wonderful oatmeal and golden syrup kind. He relaxed at the thought and lay back, listening to Moomin's slow, heavy breathing.

 

*

 

After playing by himself in a bog near the spring, Snufkin realised only at the door of the Moomin-house that he was quite smelly. He had come to borrow some of Moominpappa's paper, so that he could write and send birthday letters to the woodies- and after raising his paw to knock on the blue door, Snufkin saw the mud on his sleeve and felt very embarrassed.

"Really," he mumbled to himself, disheartened. The mud covered most of his dress, and of his rolled-up trousers. "I'm too old for pretendy games. I'm practically a father, anyway."

Unfortunately for him, a large, white face appeared in the window next to the door and it waved its paw excitedly.  
And before Snufkin could bolt, the door was opening far too fast and would have walloped him if he hadn't taken several hasty steps back.

Moomintroll smiled warmly at him. He was wearing his mother's apron.  
"Hello, Snufkin! Oh- you're covered in mud."

Snufkin felt very silly. He tipped his hat and said, shyly:  
"Hullo. Yes, I fell in the bog when climbing the trees."

"Wow! I hope you haven't hurt yourself..." He dithered in the doorway, not knowing whether to let his friend in or step outside. "Don't you remember when you used to play as Tarzan?"

"And you liked to be Jane, though you'd never say so in front of the others."

"Oh, don't remind me," Moomin went just as red. "You musn't ever tell anybody that. Promise."

"I wouldn't do that. I've come to borrow some paper, though I don't think I should come in; I smell."

"So-so," Moomin turned around, his paw resting lightly on the doorframe. There was a tiny daisy tucked into the tie of his apron straps. "Paper, paper... I'm sure Papa will lend you some. What for?"

Snufkin absently scraped off a bit of caked mud from his left boot with the heel of his right. "The woodies' birthdays are coming up. They want more and more pictures every year, but I'm no good at drawing. I suppose I'd better answer my own Papa's latest letter, too."

"You must ask him over for tea again. Stay there, Snufkin, I'll go and fetch some."

Snufkin stood obediently and watched Moomin jog lightly (well, as light as he could) across the hall and up the stairs.  
His mind wanders- as it does- from the little daisy tied to his back, the purple flowers in the garden, the vase by the fire-place... to the rose pattern in his wire comb.  
(Snufkin had gotten quite a good look at that comb last April when he had used it to brush out the rest of Moomin's winter coat.)

Was he so fond of flowers? He was certainly fond of the flowers in Snufkin's hat, if the occasion called for such a wreath. Strange as it may be, Snufkin felt even sillier to think about it. His face went quite red again.

Moments later, Moomin hopped back down the stairs with a wad of thick, white paper in his paws.  
"Here I am! Coo-ee!" Snufkin took it gratefully and got black paw prints all over them. "Thank you," he said, deciding to tuck the wad into his dress where it wasn't quite as muddy and holding it through the fabric.

Moomin grinned. "Anytime. What say you and I go to the spring? I could do with a bath myself. It's a lovely day."

"OK. I don't see why not. You go on down then, I'll put these in my tent."  
Truthfully, Snufkin was not eager to stress over 24 birthday letters for the afternoon. Even less with pictures. He was truly an awful artist and would much rather spend his time washing Moomin's velvety fur with dish soap in the secret spring. Besides, the Joxter was always at least two months late for his own birthday. Surely it wouldn't hurt to put off the cards for one other day.  
He carries the paper to his tent, and takes extra care not to throw them in so they don't fly everywhere and give him vicious paper-cuts. He'd have to find a pen, too. Again, it was Snufkin's problem tomorrow.

 

The spring was this lovely pool of clear, brown water in the middle of a clearing; surrounded by grass and thick green trees, as much as needed to hide it from unknowing passers-by. Moomin loved the smell of the moss and the earth and, of course, the white noise of the spring itself- like a tiny waterfall, you could dip either your whole snout or just your shoulders under it and feel the weight soothe every pressure and whisk every unpleasant thought away, as quick as if it were dirt.

He simply couldn't wait for Snufkin. Moomintroll placed the jar of dishsoap next to a lichen-y tree stump, and held tightly onto the bank as he lowered his furry body into the water.  
It was wonderfully cool and summery. He felt as if he might melt into the silt.

A gentle rustling in the bushes was heard just before a familiar voice called,  
"Yoo-hoo. Hello, Moomintroll."  
Snufkin pushed the leaves away from him and stepped out onto the grass of the banks. His hat had been left at the tent, as had his scarf. He crouched by the daisies for a moment, untying and loosening his boots before taking them off and tossing them behind him.

Moomin sunk lower into the water. "Hello! Hello, come in!"

"One moment," Snufkin took off his socks and the rest of his clothes, curling his tail around his paw before slipping into the spring. "Ah, how nice."

"Isn't it? Quite the way to spend such a warm afternoon."

"Would you pass me the soap?" he said, bending his head to dip his tangled red hair into the water. Moomin reached behind him and picked up the jar, giving it to his friend. Snufkin took it and poured some of the milky liquid into his palm.

"So," said Moomin enthusiastically. "What did the Joxter write about in his letter to you?"

Snufkin made a noise of disinterest, rubbing the soap into the short, coarse fur of his forearms. "Nothing very intelligible. His handwriting is hard to decipher. He wrote some things about the Mymble and his hammock and how he wishes I would visit him sometime."

"Does he live far away?"

"No, not really- he never strays very far from my mother. He usually lives somewhere in her garden, wherever she decides to go."

Moomin took the dishsoap from him and poured some into his hair. Now, he would have rather ducked under and drowned himself than admit it, but the very moment Snufkin let himself be scrubbed with the troll's softer paws, his heart started to beat so loudly he was scared it could be heard from the outside. His arm jerked towards his collar, and he swallowed, willing for his face to stay neutral.  
"That's sweet. He's a bit like you, in that sense. You live by the river that flows right past our windows."

A strange, scittery sensation ran its course from his heart, through his neck, to the tips of his fingers. It was very unpleasant.  
"Yes, but I'll never get married."

Moomin stopped for half a second to give his friend a look of pleasant surprise.  
"Oh, he's married? To the Mymble?"

"Mm-hm. He's very keen on her herring pot pie."

"Fish," Moomin shakes his head fondly. "Of course."

They finish washing up about fifteen minutes later, after they grew tired of diving and hosting breath-holding contests. Snufkin decided that he didn't particularly want to talk anymore; and was content to fish his pipe and embroidered tobacco pouch from the pockets of his green dress, lie back on the grass, and dry in the sun.  
Moomin followed suit. He lay with a respectable distance between them, his tail still dipping into the water.

Snufkin wished he hadn't left his old green hat in his tent. His heart was beginning to calm, though his face was still as red as his hair. _I must look a fright_ , he thought, blowing a wobbly smoke ring into the sky.

"Why wouldn't you get married?" said Moomintroll rather suddenly.

Snufkin's heartbeat became loud and erratic once more. He thought hard for a moment.  
"It would make me unhappy. I'd feel tethered, because that is rather the point of marriage. To be tied down."

"You'd much rather be free and live by rivers your whole life?"

"Not just rivers," Snufkin mumbled. "Gardens, springs, beaches, ponds, lakes... have you ever been to a lake? It's like a pond, but as big as the ocean and black as tar. You could even drink the water if you wanted to."

Moomin did not fall for the distraction. "Would you ever fall in love?"

"I don't know." This was getting embarrassing. Snufkin wished for his hat a second time. "I think it would be silly to fall in love. No men ever talk kindly of it."

"What about your father? And your mother's pies?"

"Well... I don't know, Moomin. I've never been in love, I don't know what it's like."  
His experience lay elsewhere. It belonged in ties, tents, pancakes, lock-picking, fishing... certainly not in arrhythmia and marriage. "You've been in love, what do you think of it?"

Moomin shifted in the grass. It rustled under his weight, the daisies brushing by his white fur. "I wasn't. I liked the Snorkmaiden, she was a wonderful friend and a wonderful girl. But I suppose I only loved her because I thought I ought to."  
His paws rubbed together nervously.  
"Because she _was_ a beautiful girl, and everybody kind of expected it. But, in all honesty... I'm not sure if I'm even interested _in_ girls, at all."

Snufkin looked at him, slightly startled.  
Moomin stared determinedly at the sky.  
"I think you know what I mean. But one doesn't say it."

"... I understand."

He blinked, his paws falling back down to his sides.  
"Thank you. I'm glad you do."


	2. Happy Burthday Sniff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!! Thank u for da luvly comments!! love yews..  
> I dont know when sniff's birthday is so lets just pretend its at some point in september

When it was September, Snufkin was lying across the wooden bridge; feeling very bored and cold. He was waving his tail irritably when he heard his name being shouted across the lawn.  
Moominmamma had opened the window of the front room and was waving her checked terry cloth wildly to get his attention. "Snufkin! Snufkin! Be a darling and come in! I need a favour!"

He stood up and made his way idly by the Moomin-house. Moominmamma had since withdrawn from the window and was now waiting at the open door, her paws clasped together.  
"Hello. I'm so sorry to disturb you, dear- only, I need a good lad such as yourself to help me peel the potatoes for tonight's stew. We're having visitors."

"Ah... visitors?" said Snufkin warily, stepping from the green verandah into the threshold. "Is there an occasion?"

"Of course! It's Sniff's birthday!" Moominmamma lead him through to the kitchen, where Moomin was already standing at the sink next to a positive mountain of potatoes. He turned and waved, a metal peeler in hand.

"Oh." Snufkin rolled up his sleeves and stood next to Moomin, who shuffled sideways to make some room. "Who's coming?"

Moomin handed him another peeler with a red plastic handle, making sure to press it carefully into his paw. "His relations, of course. His parents sent him a letter and birthday present a few days ago, though it was rather difficult trying to open it as it was tied together with a lot of wool and string. Hodgekins also sent us a telegram. I think his brother and sister-in-law are coming, too. They'll all be arriving at our house in a few hours."

"I see," said Snufkin picking up a particularly knobbly potato in his right hand. "So, will there be a party tonight?"

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," said Moomin quickly. Moominmamma started to pull a large tray of cut purple beetroot out of the refrigerator.

"No, I will. I'm sorry I didn't mind the date."

"That's alright. But will you wish him many happy returns if you get the chance?"

Snufkin nodded. "Of course."

It was a job and a half. Snufkin had never actually bothered to peel any spuds before, if and when he decided to eat them. He would rather just have thrown some into a borrowed metal bucket and held it over his campfire.  
Still, he supposed some people have taste. And if it took a cramped paw and a pile of potato peel to satisfy it, that's what he would do.  
Moomin chatted to him quietly and absently through the job, talking about the weather, the party, the Muddler and his wife, the Fuddler and his wife...

He listened and nodded and peeled, but never really engaged in the conversation.

Just as the last had been skinned, Moominpappa burst through the door and made all of the kitchen utensils rattle. Moomintroll jumped violently and spun around, nearly hitting his poor friend in the eye with his fist.  
Moominmamma, who had been stoking the woodfire oven, said indignantly:  
"Really, dear, what have I told you about slamming doors?"

Moominpappa blinked. "Oh. Yes, apologies. Hello, Snufkin. I have good news! Excellent news, in fact!"  
He waved what looked like another telegram about the air. Both his family members looked rather disdained.  
"You!" He pointed at Snufkin. "Your family is coming to stay for a while! They're coming along with Hodgekins."

Something burst out of the pail of firewood, making Moominmamma scream and clutch at her chest. Little My scrambled out from under the splinters with something silver and shiny in her tiny paw. "Mama's coming?"

"Oh! Come out of there this instant!" Moominmamma scolded, pulling her out from the wood. Little My struggled out of her grip and dropped a small handful of grimy coins in the process.

"Typical!" cried My, jumping down onto the tiles and chasing after them. "There goes Sniff's birthday present!"

Snufkin had since put down the peeler. "My family?"

"Yes, my good old friends, Joxter and Mymble. And many of their children. The entirety of the Oshun Oxtra's crew will be here for Sniff's birthday party."

"Oh dear," Moominmamma mumbled. "We must move the furniture at once."

 

After the stew, pie and soup had been put on to cook, Moomin beckoned for Snufkin to follow him up the stairs to his room. Snufkin obliged, even if he didn't really want to.  
Moomin pushed open the door and let his friend go inside. "Come in; I need your opinion on something."

"If it's Sniff's birthday present, I wouldn't have any valid opinion. I don't see through the eyes of a capitalist," he said grumpily, wiping his paws on his dress.

"What? No, no, obviously. No, I have-" Moomintroll ambled over to his wardrobe and opened it, blankets and pillows spilling out from the different shelves onto his rug. He batted them out of his away and pulled out something very large and flat. "I have a painting I've been wanting to show you."  
He struggled for a moment, catching the end of the canvas on the hanger-bar, but eventually set it out in front of him so that Snufkin could look at it properly.  
He recognised it immediately.

"The comet," said Snufkin, absolute wonder in his voice.

"Yes!" Moomin looked very excited. "Do you like it? The meteor-fall last June put it into mind. I've been inspired and painting ever since."

The canvas was painted navy and purple around its edges, fading into the beautiful red and orange of the comet's fire.  
"Oh, Moomin. It's wonderful."

"You think so? It's not finished," Moomin propped it up against the wall and sat down on the bed beside Snufkin. "Mamma says she'll hang it up in the hall once it is. Near the tree."

"I love that tree."

"Me too," Moomin giggled stupidly. They sat staring at the painting for another while. Snufkin started to feel a little strange as the seconds went by, however. He couldn't quite describe it. Something about the way Moomin was sitting so closely by him, the way the bed sagged with his weight, the way his body was so warm Snufkin could feel it even if they weren't touching... it was all starting to make the back of his teeth ache. His chest hurt, too, and it seemed the only way it could be relieved was if he were to move his paw slightly and touch-

But he didn't.

"What's wrong?"

Snufkin jumped slightly and blinked at Moomintroll.  
"What?"

"Your forehead's all creased up and your paws are squeezing," said Moomin, his blue eyes crossed with concern.

"Oh. No, I'm alright, I'm just-" he waved his paw vaguely. "Just."

"Just," Moomin repeated. "... You can tell me, don't you know?"

His voice was so soft it made the ache in Snufkin's body worse, a little bit at a time. He didn't want to know what was wrong. He didn't want anybody else to know what was wrong, either, and he would have rather jumped out of the window than told Moomin. His only true friend. Of course he'd feel so strange, to the only person he really liked to talk to.

Oh, enough about that.  
"I suppose I'm only slightly worried about my parents coming along to see me at such short notice. Well, they're not here to see _me_. They've come for Sniff and Moominpappa, really."

"That's not true. Hasn't your father been sending you letter after letter asking for you?"

That was true. But it didn't really feel so.  
"When we met years ago, my papa thought he hadn't ever seen me before. But the truth was, that he had. He had only forgotten; I simply looked different." Snufkin suddenly felt very nervous and started to pick at the laces of his boots.  
"When I was born, I had been so small I was nearly invisible, and as well as that, I had been named differently, too. They mistook me as a Mymble!"

Moomin made a noise halfway between a gasp and a laugh. "Really?"

"Yes, and they dressed me in girl's clothes and tied my hair. I didn't like that one bit. I'm afraid I was rather excitable and mischievous when I was younger. You know that story of the melon."

"Oh yes, my favourite."

"Well, I left home, when I was too small to understand or remember. But, of course, if you're a nomad like I am, raising yourself is no problem."  
That all was true.

Moomin was giggling and rubbing his paws together. "I accidentally left home, too! When I was very small."

"We're together on that, then."

"We're always together."  
Moomin stood up again and walked over to his wooden desk. All along the edge of it, a tiny pattern had been etched into the wood with a compass- a daisy chain. Its tiny petals and leaves were painted, though it hadn't been varnished and most had scratched off over time. Snufkin was very fond of it.

"And what, are you just simply anxious? To meet your parents again? Or are you worried about appearances?"  
Moomin picked up a small wad of yellow paper and a fountain pen and brought it over to the bed.

"Maybe," said Snufkin, tying his laces into a special sailor's knot. "I don't know. I don't know why I'm anxious. I just am."

"Don't mind me, I only need to write Sniff a birthday card," he explained, dropping the paper onto the duvet and sitting cross legged by the pillow.  
"That's okay. I'm always nervous."

"Well, I'd hope not!" said Snufkin, turning around to sit opposite his friend. "It's not a great feeling."

"No, I don't suppose it is. But you make me feel better."

He went red in the face. "Do stop."

"But you do! I always feel so calm when I'm with you. You make me feel so light and carefree."

If it were somebody else, perhaps they would have loved these compliments. But they only made Snufkin feel worse. Because as much as he wanted to lie and tell Moomin that he made him feel at ease too, that was no longer the truth.  
That _once_ was the case, but  whenever they were together, he couldn't help but feel this strange, uncomfortable sort of squeeze in his gut. Like he had eaten something funny, and now he had a mean little worm inside of him, begging him to reach out and hold Moomin's paw at every given moment... and every time Snufkin would hold back, the squeeze became harder and harder.  
It was not good, it was not fun, and it certainly was not light or carefree.

"Yes," said Snufkin, quietly. "So do you, Moomin. You're my very best friend."

 

*

 

The dinner table had been moved to the garden.  
Eighteen places had been set; each with a dinner plate, glass and cutlery squeezed up next to each other- for Moomin, Snufkin, Snorkmaiden, Little My, Hodgekins, Muddler, Fuzzy, Fuddler, Jumble, Joxter, Mymble, the other Mymble, two mymble children who were too old to sit with the others on the picnic blankets, Moominpappa, Moominmamma- and of course, Sniff, who sat at the very end with a golden paper crown around his ears.

They were all sitting down, save for Mama, Fuzzy and Mymble; who were inside preparing to take the birthday dinner out in porcelain trays. The air was warm and breezy, the trees were singing quietly as trees do and the sky was a lovely orange colour. Tall candlesticks in brass holders lined the tablecloth and bathed everybody in a beautiful yellow glow.

Sniff was extremely pleased with himself and the cotton pillowcase of wrapped gifts tied around his wooden chair.  
"I'm going to buy a bicycle!" he announced to the table, shaking about in his seat so that the purse of money he had collected jangled. "A big red one! So that I can cycle about and make everybody jealous!"

"If you can't find a red one, will you let us paint it?" said Moomintroll, half-jokingly.  
He was sitting between Jumble and Snufkin, fiddling with his fork so that it clinked against his plate every two seconds. Jumble was getting rather irritated with the din. She glared through her blonde fringe at her own empty plate.

Snufkin, however, leaned back in his chair and blew smoke rings into the sky to calm his nerves. He was sitting next to his father, who hadn't spoken much since his arrival. He had come in at 5 o' clock, with the Mymble and her group of tiny children, caught his son in an awkward embrace (they were about the exact same height, mind you) and said "hullo" in his strange accent. But that was about it.  
For now, the Joxter pulled his red hat down over his eyes and sat with his fingers interlaced in his lap.

The Mymble's daughter and Snorkmaiden were chatting to each other amicably, Moominpappa and Hodgekins were talking about something in very hushed voices- and, of course, the Muddler and his other son were both inspecting a glass button one of the older mymble children had fished out of her pocket.  
Everything was alright so far. Snufkin was hungry.

It wasn't long before the three mothers came outside of the Moomin-house with trays of stew, pie, boiled eggs, fruitcake and soup in hand. The Mymble, tallest of all of them, had since taken off her grand furry coat and was wearing a lovely blue dress with red leaves stamped into the skirt. She bustled over to where her son sat and set the huge pie down in the middle of the table.

"Hello, my darling!" she cried, leaning down to tip Snufkin's hat to the side and to kiss his forehead. Her perfume was very strong. "Sitting beside your papa, eh? What a good boy!"

By the time she had gone, he was quite red with embarrassment. One of the mymble children was looking at him curiously. He tipped his own hat over his eyes, dad-style.

"Hats off at the table!" said the Mymble jovially, plucking the Joxter's hat from his head. "You too, Snufbin!"

" _Snufkin_ ," he mumbled darkly, taking it off and dropping it onto the grass. Moomin coughed loudly into his paw.

In no time, everybody's plates were filled and the Muddler had stood up in his chair to raise his glass to his son.  
He said some quick words about whiskers, red bicycles and felicitations, which lead to a loud cheer and a collective clink of glass and against glass.  
Everybody then settled down to eat. The stew was very nice, though Snufkin only ate some of it. He had rather lost his appetite after watching one of the little ones throw up into Jumble's gloves by the verandah.

The chat stayed low and friendly. The mymble children's names were Blomma and Milken, one being very shy and saying nothing at all, and the other friendly but rather dim.  
A commotion only really started when the Joxter dropped one of the boiled eggs onto Little My's head when she tried to crawl under the table towards the house. She yelled very loudly and tried to bite his leg; only foiled when Snufkin took hold of her by the collar and and placed her back on the table. She then poured the milk out of the gravy boat onto his dinner and then hid inside of it.

Everybody laughed except for Snufkin and Moominmamma, who both looked mortified.

Then came the birthday cake. Both Moominmamma and the Fuzzy had baked cakes for Sniff, one being Mama's lemon drizzle and the other being a grand victoria sponge with the words "Happy Burthday Sniff" written in lovely italic piping. Neither were very sure what age Sniff was, so they put as many candles as they liked in each.

And he very nearly cried with joy when the cakes were brought out! He sang very loudly and tunelessly along with the others and blew every candle out in one gust of breath.

"Very good, very good!" said the Fuzzy, nearly in tears herself. She took hold of Sniff's paw and said, "My dear son. You're so grown up now."

"Ye-e-es," said Sniff, adjusting his paper crown and smiling as widely as his whiskers permitted. "Thank you, Mama. I will have a slice of your cake first."

She really did burst into tears then.  
Everybody had at least one piece of each, Moomin having about half of the lemon drizzle. Snufkin knew he could have easily eaten both if he wanted to, which he clearly did. It was only when he reached out to cut another weeny slice of the victoria did Moominmamma give her son a reproachful look.  
And then, afterwards, everybody stood up to dance in the grass by the picnic blankets. Moominpappa lit up the Chinese lanterns, and the Mymble brought out her most modern records from the shawl-bag by the window.

It was wonderful. Everybody danced until their legs and shoulders ached, and when Too-Ticky came by to wish Sniff his happy returns she was pulled into a waltz by the Mymble's daughter.  
Snufkin stayed by the sidelines; talking quietly to his father.

"When's your birthday, eh?" said the Joxter after fifteen minutes of stilted small talk, mumbling through the pipe-stem between his teeth.

Snufkin looked at him, slightly confused. "You know when. You send me a birthday letter every year."

"Oh. Of course. I'm sorry, my memory's not what it's been. I'm afraid your mother reminds me of most things," he said awkwardly, tugging at his sleeves.

"Are you terribly forgetful?" said Snufkin rudely.

"I suppose I am. Mymble says I ought to see a doctor, but I keep, uh..."

"Forgetting." He crossed his arms.

"Yes."

It was at that moment that Sniff sauntered over to them and turned towards Snufkin. He looked expectantly at him; paper crown tipped, a rosy look in his eyes.  
"Will you dance with me, Snufkin?"

Snufkin did not want to dance with him. He was bored, uncomfortable, tired and nervous, and he rather thought if anybody laid their paws on him now that he would become very angry and ruin the party. This would be detrimental. It would make everybody uncomfortable and sad, and Snufkin feel truly terrible later on, and everything would be wrong in the world! So, he lied.

Snufkin smacked his paw against his forehead and widened his eyes.  
"Oh, wildest curses! I left the stove on at home! I need to go back and turn it off immediately! I'm so sorry, Sniff!"

"Oh my!" said Sniff, stupidly. "You better!"

"Goodbye!" Snufkin called over his shoulder, jogging away from the party-goers. "Happy birthday!"

 

He ran all the way across the wooden bridge, over to the tree where his tent had been propped up. It was a relief to hear the zipper close him off from the rest of the valley when he crawled inside to curl up against his knapsack.  
That ache from the inside of his chest very suddenly rose to his throat and burned, drawing tears from his eyes and a gasp that frightened him.

He pulled his hat over his eyes and cried. There wasn't much he could do except squeeze his arms around his body and curse himself a thousand times over for being so irritable, so easily pushed over the edge by such things.  
He was humiliated for being unable to withstand a simple party. He was afraid of his parents, and how easily they could forget about him. And he was ashamed of leaving Moomin again, leaving without even saying goodbye. Just as he always did.  
That was the trouble with friends. You could never be free as long as you admired somebody too much.

Snufkin needed to leave again. He couldn't stand staying in this place much longer, staying and hurting his only friend, staying and being hurt by being the way that he was.  
But it was still only September.

Something moved outside of his tent. He froze, ears straining.

"Snufkin?" It was Moomintroll's voice.  
He didn't answer, heart beating.

"I know you're there; I heard you crying."  
If only his voice hadn't been so soft. If it had been anybody else, Snufkin would have stayed quiet in hopes that they would leave.

" 'm not crying," he mumbled pathetically.

"Yes you are," Moomin shifted outside of his tent, the grass rustling.

Snufkin said nothing.

"I was going to ask you to dance, but you left," said Moomin, very softly now. "I thought maybe you had gone back to fetch something, but then I heard you cry. If something is bothering you, I'd want to know about it."

No answer. The tears started to seep out into the fabric of his hat again.

Moomin was quiet a moment, before saying, sadly:  
"... I'll leave you alone. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come."

And then he walked away.  
Snufkin fell asleep a few hours later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the ending is kinda edgy lol he be feeling thangs :,-|  
> I'm an artist too!!! My tumblr is @icehead98 if u wanna look at it!!! Mostly moomin art lol


	3. Burned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be in work experience next week (which is like unpaid child labour) (WELL YEAH CUS I WAS STILL FIFTEEN DURING THE FIRST WEEK) so the upload schedule might be a little awf lol thanks for the LOVELY COMMENTS I LOVE YOUUU

September came and went, and was followed by October; as months usually do.

The leaves started to pale and turn to gold as they did every year. And with that followed the change in weather.  
It became cold, and sky became grey and white- and when Moominmamma leaned out of the window to beat and shake out the rugs, she wore her navy shawl; the kind with the bits of silvery thread sewn into the tassles.

Snufkin rarely left his tent in the daytime after his parents had left. They stayed until the very end of the month; the Mymble taking care to visit him in his little cave to ask him gently to come and stay with them this winter.

"Even if it just be for a few days," she said kindly, crouching down at the zipper but never actually entering.  
Snufkin watched her like a cornered animal.  
"Your father always goes on about spending more time with you. He really wants to, you know," the Mymble continued. "And I would, too. I hear you've been to all sorts of places. I'd like to hear some of your stories. Think about it, eh?"

And so Snufkin nodded, mumbled an agreement, and promised to send letters. He remembered how the Joxter smiled and waved at him as they left Moominvalley, and how he did not smile or wave back. Instead, he had crawled back into his tent.

Perhaps he was becoming a hermit now, as well as a tramp.

One morning, a few days into October, did Moomintroll whistle outside of his tent (for you could hardly knock the door). He was holding two plates of pancakes and raised one expectantly when Snufkin pulled open the zipper.  
"Would you like some pancakes?" he said, timidly. "Mama made the blueberry kind, and I thought maybe you'd like some."

"Oh, yes. Thank you."  
Snufkin loved the blueberry kind. He struggled out of his tent and sat down on the grass in front of it. It was wet with morning dew, and it seeped through his dress and trousers but one doesn't care when one is homeless.

Moomin sat down next to him and handed him the plate in his right paw.  
"... It's a bit chilly this morning, isn't it?"

"Mm."

"Want to do something today?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Do you want to draw with me on the beach?"

"I'm no good at drawing, I've told you."

Moomintroll sighed. "Nevermind."

Things had been a little stilted between them since Sniff's party. Never since did they mention Snufkin's sad departure, nor the crying, for that matter. Moomin simply didn't know what to say. Snufkin had only ever cried so when the ocean had vanished those years ago.  
He remembers the shock of seeing somebody so collected fall down and sob as if his heart would break, and the awkwardness of two boys totally ignorant as to what should be done in those circumstances. What does one do when the other is so sad?  
What should one do now?  
Because Snufkin _is_ sad. And Moomin doesn't know why.

"Maybe we could go to the fairy ring in the forest," he said, his pancakes already eaten. "You know. The ring of trees around that stone basin."

"You mean the old pond?"

"Yes, the one with no water. Mamma used to tell me that the twelve trees around it were once princesses, turned to wood by an old witch."

"Exciting," said Snufkin unenthusiastically.

"Don't be horrid, I was only a baby. Listen, the trees there are nearly dead, so you can take your penknife with us and we'll carve our names into the bark."

That did seem to pique his interest. Snufkin shoved his half-eaten pancake into his mouth and gave the rest to Moomin, creeping back into the tent to grab his knapsack.  
"Let's do that," he said, pulling out his knife. "Maybe it'll annoy somebody in a uniform."

"That's the spirit," said Moomintroll happily. He ate the rest of Snufkin's pancakes and stacked the two plates against each other, standing up. "I'll take these back inside, you wait outside the house for me."

And so Snufkin sat on the verandah and twiddled his thumbs like a pensioner. He whistled absently to himself and thought about the fairy ring, how he probably should have been a little kinder outside of his tent. Maybe he'll sing something on the way to lighten the mood.

When Moomin finally came out, they walked together towards the forest and hummed songs to each other in intervals. Across the fields and clearings grew lots of dandelions, their fiery yellow heads scattered across the grass as far as the eye could see at any given point. Was there usually that many?

Inside of the forest, they came to a wall overgrown with lichen and ivy, the bricks having that green shine of a monument that had spent hundreds of years in the open air with no weathershield. A few miles to the right of the wall was a large rectangular entrance, with designs of leaves chiseled into the frame. Snufkin had written his name there with Moomin's paints a few years ago.

Moomin stopped and traced it with his finger.  
"Do you remember this?"

"Yes, it was sometime after the Snorkmaiden lost her memory," said Snufkin, leaning in to squint at his own round hand.  
_S-N-U-F-K-I-N._ The K had a loop in the middle.

They continued on.  
The bricks themseves of the wall were so old that, when Moomin picked at a flake of the stone, it fell clean off and inside lay a nest of centipedes. They looked very angry and yelled a few expletives in tiny voices, which put Snufkin in a sour mood.  
The pond itself lay beyond the door in the middle of the clearing; and inside of the stone cut banks, it was filled with fresh soil and beautiful white flowers. Their leaves were green and fresh, and the mounted stem held row upon row of heart shaped petals.

Moomin was very taken with them. He stared in awe, cooed and smiled; promising to himself out loud that he would pick them and bring them home when they were finished.

The trees around the fairy ring had been cut at the trunk, but new saplings bearing pine needles had propped themselves up around their ghosts. What was left of the trees bore bark that was old, withered and peeling.  
On one of the trunks was a very large piece of plain yellow wood where the bark had been stripped. This is where Moomin chose to carve his name; and it was on the most whorled and withered trunk that Snufkin carved his.

"Isn't this romantic, Snufkin?" said Moomintroll, sitting by his chosen tree and closing his eyes. "Imagine being a stranger in say, fifty years time, and coming across our names carved into these trunks. How mysterious and beguiling they must think of us."

"Sure," said Snufkin. He was inspecting his own handiwork. "Or, maybe they'll think us fools- you never know what could be foolish or not in the future."

Moomin frowned. "Oh. Yes, maybe."

"Perhaps we should have carved into living trees," Snufkin frowned at the grass beyond the ring. "Then the bark would grow, and the split would be more pronounced as it gets older. You know."  
He sighed, what sounded like the trill of a cat.

But Moomin stood up very suddenly.  
"Hang on, yes! I do know! Oh, come with me, Snufkin; I have something amazing to show you!"

He took his friend by the paw and pulled him excitedly out of the fairy ring, and further into the forest. Snufkin would have been interested in where they were going if he were not burning at the touch between the two of them.  
It was a cross between a good and a bad sort of feeling, which he recognised- but still had no name for. Was it embarrassment? Excitement? Whatever it was, it was uncomfortable- and sweaty. Snufkin did not want to hold hands for much longer.

Moomin eventually stopped, quite abruptly. Snufkin nearly crashed into him, but was only just able to go rigid and stop that from happening in the nick of time.  
"What is it?" he said bitterly, pulling away from Moomin's softened grip to tighten his scarf around his neck.

"Look!" He pointed at the particularly fat tree they had stopped in front of, all the way at the top; the point where the trunk turned into its branches.  
There, just at that very spot, was a large heart cut into the bark with the words 'WILL YOU MARRY ME?' carved into the middle.

Snufkin stared at it.

"Isn't it amazing?" said Moomintroll, blue eyes twinkling. "Snorkmaiden showed it to me in the the spring. This was after we had gone both ways, but it was still so wonderful when I saw it for the first time. It makes me wonder who carved for who."

"Yes," Snufkin mumbled, blinking hard.

"That's one thing I wanted to show you. The other is just around."

This time, thankfully, Moomin did not hold paws. Instead, he marched on ahead of his poor friend; who was simply not in the mood for such things. But Snufkin was not in the mood to be unkind, either- so he followed, and he kept quiet.  
The next tree they reached, however, certainly caught his interest.  
The Witch was a spectacular old dead oak with wood that swirled and mottled like the covers of Moominpappa's Italian marbled notebooks. The branches reached out ino the air like an old woman screaming in pain as she burned, having at least half of the old thing positively engulfed in blackened, charred bark. It had been set on fire out of superstition many years ago.

"This is the Witch who turned those poor fairies to wood," said Moomin, his arms crossed. "She was rightfully given some of her own medicine. Look, there's a piece over here I used to sit in- it was perfectly shaped-"  
He trailed over to the other side of the oak and tapped a low sawed branch with his knee.  
He was far too big to sit in it now, however.  
But it was enough for _Snufkin_ to sit in, so he did.

"I'm getting very fat, aren't I?" said Moomin sadly, watching him from his own seat on a pile of orange leaves.

"Only a little," said Snufkin. "But aren't Moomins supposed to be?"

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "I suppose. Will you be leaving soon?"

The question completely caught the both of them off guard. Moomin sort of froze where he sat, except for his fingers- which drummed nervously against the leaves on the ground. They made a pitiful rustling noise.  
Snufkin raised his paw jerkily to his forehead and rubbed the crease between his eyebrows, blinking at his shoes.  
"Yes, I will."

"I thought so. You've been so miserable since your parents came to visit."

He frowned. "I'm not miserable. They asked me over to stay at their house, don't you know. During the winter."

Moomin glanced at him. "And will you?"

"Maybe."

They were quiet for another few minutes, thinking amongst themselves. Snufkin took his hat from his head and inspected it carefully, brushing away a few strands of rogue red hair from the brim.

"... You won't let me go with you?" asked Moomintroll quietly. His figure was hidden behind the mass of grubby green fabric.

"No, Moomin."

"You'd better leave soon, then; I hate to see you so sad. For whatever reason it may be. Please don't stay in Moominvalley for my sake if it hurts you so."

These words brought that stupid burn to Snufkin's throat once again, and he had to stare very hard at his hat and swallow to stop himself from crying like a moron in front of his only friend. He wasn't only staying for Moomin's sake, that was wrong- Snufkin couldn't bear the thought of leaving him, which was exactly why he had to do it. And he had to do it now if he was being brought to tears so easily.

"I'll write you letters," he said, a little louder than intended. "As much as I can until you've hibernated. With pictures, too."

"Oh, Snufkin, you don't have to-"

"But I want to," Snufkin persisted, looking beyond his hat. "And you could send me some, too. Send them to my parents' address and they'll give them to me once I pay them a visit."

Moomin's eyes widened. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes. That way I won't feel so terrible surrounded by Mymble children if I can read your writing."

And so, it was decided.  
They stayed with each other for a little longer, before parting in the afternoon- not really a goodbye, only a small tip of the hat and a smile- and Moomintroll knew he wouldn't see his friend for the rest of the winter. He trailed up the stairs to his bedroom and hurried to the window by the roof, looking out- just to see the zipper of the green tent close, for that last time.

"Goodbye, Snufkin," he said, sadly; before drawing the curtains and opening his wardrobe door.

 

*

 

_Moomintroll,_

_There is a word on my mind but I simply can't seem to think of it. Instead, I'll see you later for now and I hope you're doing well.  
Make some rock cakes and eat them in my honour._

_Cheerio,  
Snufkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI SORRU IF THIS CHAPTER IS KINDA SHORT IM SITTING IN A VERY COLD FIELD AT THE MOMENT DRENCHED IN RAIN.... i have to watch my sister play a match and its awfully boring but i did get to have a close look at a victorian butter churn in the mill beside the football field so thats That on That


	4. Letters

Moomin,  
I said I would write to you so here I am, writing. That piece of tarpaulin that we made has come in very handy, as I am sitting at the edge of an old country road with sharp stones and weeds under my back. But I feel so alive!

Sleep well.  
_Snufkin_

 

Dear Snufkin,  
You poor thing. I've gotten your parents' address from my dad, and you will no doubt be reading this under a cosy roof without a sharp stone in sight. Have the children grown any bigger? How many times has your tail been pulled on? I do hope you're as well as you can be!  
Mama has started to cover the furniture with plastic wrap, but she's leaving the grandfather clock for last because it would be such a shame to hide something so beautiful. Little My has gone to stay with her sister, and of all people the Snork came to dinner on Saturday. He and Snorkmaiden have gone West to their father's house on the coast. Everybody's having their own family reunions! It's all so terribly exciting.

Lots of love,  
_Moomintroll_

 

Moomin,  
I've come across a town I have been to a few years ago. The man in the seashell shop recognised me and gave me this. I'll slip it into an envelope for you.  
It's not as nice as that heart-shaped one you keep on your shelf, but it's big and dark and pearly and I thought it would be a nice counterpart.  
Nothing very interesting other than that has happened.

I hope you like it.  
_Snufkin_

 

Dear Snufkin,  
Oh, I simply love the seashell you've sent me. I think it's a scallop- I'm a little hazy with my identification. I don't suppose you'd know anything about scallops? You seem to know lots about everything, it's simply admirable. I know it's only been a week, but I do miss you and our walks together; when you would tell me things about the world and I would listen.  
I've asked Papa how long now until we hibernate, and he estimated about nine more days until the sun sets a final time and the black sky takes her place. Do you remember when we hibernated together when we were younger? That was before you adopted your wonderfully romantic wandering lifestyle.  
I hope you're well. Don't just eat fruit the whole time while you're away, or you'll get a toothache.

Lots of love,  
_Moomintroll_

 

Moomin,  
I'm sorry I haven't written in a few weeks. I hope you haven't hibernated yet, otherwise this letter will go unread for the whole winter. I passed through a small town on my travels where the sun shone brightly, and everything was made of stained glass. There was an instrument shop that somebody had broken into. A few guitars had been taken, save for some that were destroyed in the din and had been left behind. The woman who owned the shop was grateful for my help when I answered to her calls in the streets, and she said that I could take one of them if I wanted to mend it.  
I said that I would. It's a fine thing, only the bridge being completely battered and some of the frets pushed askew. It's missing a few strings, but they were kindly given to me by the shopkeeper. So now, as well as a harmonica and a knapsack that's big enough as it is, I have a busted old instrument slung on my back.  
Apologies for having written such a long and rambly letter.  
I'll be thinking of you.

_Snufkin_

 

Dear Moomin,  
It's November now. I'm sure you are hibernating and that you're dreaming of nice things. Yesterday I saw a man at the beach painting at an easel, and thought of how one day we should go and paint together on the sand. I'll try my best to capture your likeness.

See you soon.  
_Snufkin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh.... dear moomin...... .......... my immune system is failing repost to save it
> 
>  
> 
> I'll draw some things for this chapter and link them when im done, im too lazy to do them now lol also my sister gets annoyed when i draw in bed because the tap of my stylus against an ipad screen is like nails against a chalkboard for the 12 yr old brain


	5. Punk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god sry for late update TT______TT

Oh, if the clocks hadn't ticked through the cold. If maybe that wretched grandfather clock hadn't been moved to the landing, where it was warmer than the cellar.

There are hundreds of things he could've done to stop it. Things he will think about forever.

Moomintroll twitched under the thick duvet covers. The sky was black; but when he lifted his stiff head to look through the window, it looked as grey as a February morning. Sleep still blurred his vision the way it would after waking up from a good long nap. He rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his paws, clumsily.

 _What time is it?_  
He heard something low and muffled chime quietly, just outside his door.  
_Odd_. The clocks never worked properly in the spring; they always had to be wound by Moominpappa. _He never remembers to do it, however, and we're always late for supper._

Moomin shuffled out of bed and reached out to push open the window, before stopping immediately.  
His eyes widened, still so sleepy- and his heart froze, sending ice to every curve corner of his body.  
Because when his paws were inches from the window, Moomin felt how cold the glass was- so cold, that his own breath blew in clouds of smoke against it. So cold that the grey sky was frozen, tiny white crystals, stuck to the panes-

It was not the sky. It was snow.

"Oh no..." an ugly crease formed between Moomintroll's eyebrows and he frowned an awful frown. "Don't tell me..."  
He reached out and pushed. In an instant, the snow vanished- and was replaced with a terrible dark red, almost pitch black. The sun had been swallowed by a scarlet imposter and it hung like the devil over a white-coated valley.  
It was winter.

"Again," Moomin whispered, taking a step away from the window. "It's happened again..."

He had woken up from hibernation, once, twice, three times now. He would be alone again. Alone, alone, so alone-  
He ran out of his room, footsteps thundering loudly in the empty house- down the first few stairs and into the landing. There stood the grandfather clock, covered in plastic. It sung its horrible song and Moomin could only look at it and tremble.

"I've woken up," he said, staring into its glass face.

It said nothing.

 

*

 

Snufkin could see it from the other side of the canola field. It looked small enough from the distance; painted a plain white, with nothing particularly interesting to note except for the fifth sail that spun slowly round in the wind.  
The mill sat between a large duck pond and, of course, the field that Snufkin was about to cut across. The weather was too frigid for anything nice to come of it; which was a shame, for he knew how nice the tiny yellow flowers could look in the summer. There was no harm in trodding on frozen soil.  
He left the little country road and started to walk towards the mill. The ground started to crunch unpleasantly under his boots, and the cold air pierced the inside of his throat and lungs like God-knows-what. Locating his parents' house had been a pain in the neck, and having had to pass through a city on the way made his eyes stream and his nose burn. So many cars, he had seen! He was almost thankful to know how desolate a place the Mymble was living in now.

It was a little odd, he thought; as the mill got gradually bigger. There was no grain stable or barn in sight. Clearly, no more flour was being made there.

When Snufkin was close enough to see through the tiny square windows, he realised that he was being watched by many pairs of eyes.  
Surely more than fifty children crowded around each glass, some climbing upon each other to catch a glimpse of him. Their mouths were open in silent shouts.

He tipped his hat over his eyes and approached the door. It was very tall, Mymble-sized, and painted red to match. Beside it was a huge cast-iron chair that looked almost like a fork, bent over in such a way that you could lie in it. It was far too big for Snufkin, but he figured it was where his mother sat when the weather was warmer. He could imagine her laying with her eyes closed, three little ones curled up on her belly.

He stepped up onto the stone threshold and raised his paw to knock on the door, but it swung inside just as he was about to.  
A ginger head popped out from the other side to peer at him.  
"Hullo," she said shyly. "It's Snufkin."

"That would be me," said Snufkin flatly, squinting at her. She- a girl with brown eyes and a black nose- was clearly one of his sisters. "Am I welcome inside?"

His sister jumped and opened the door wide enough for him to step in.  
"Mama's having a bath upstairs, but she'll be out soon. She already knows you're here because we could see you out the window from miles away."

"Oh?" he said, taking a good look around. On one part of the ground floor, the left side, was the front room- with two sofas and a window to the fields. On the right, there was the kitchen- a small square space, with a stove, fridge, red peppers on the counter and a huge glass jar full of water, ginger and cucumber. The walls were made of old bricks and were painted white all over, the ceiling being lilac. There were colourful crayon drawings all over the lower part of the walls, and there were toys strewn absolutely everywhere- dolls, carts, books, bears, cars, plastic daggers, you name it. They littered the Chinese carpet and were even shoved into the fireplace.

The girl dithered beside him.  
"Would you like a cup of tea?" she said nervously, big owl eyes staring holes through his hat.

"No," said Snufkin. He was wondering why the children hadn't already come downstairs to make his life difficult. "I would like some coffee, though, if you have any."

She brightened up at the instruction.  
"Oh, yes. Sit down, will you."

Snufkin did not take off his bag; instead, he swivelled the old guitar so that he was holding it firmly in both paws and sat down at the very edge of the red velvet sofa. He stared around at the picture frames and the wooden cabinets. The black and white photographs on the walls were of the Mymble herself, an absolute army of children crammed inside of one of the bedrooms, and- to his surprise- the Joxter, sitting in the iron chair outside of the house. His picture was just above the television set, which was strategically placed inside of the metal fire-guard.

There was a plastic extension telephone, resting on a beautifully crocheted doily by the rickety staircase. Snufkin had only ever seen Moomin's telephone before, and that had been an old model. This one was new, shiny, and green.

The mymble girl tread carefully over to the sofa a few minutes later, trying not to spill the coffee onto the rug. She handed it to him, fearfully.

He took it.  
"Thank you. What's your name?"

"Mymble," she said, blankly.

"Oh. Of course. Where are the rest of the children?"

"They're not allowed to bother you unless you want them to, that's what Mama said."

Snufkin raised his eyebrows. "Well! Isn't it nice to have her thinking about me. And what about you? Are you an exception?"

Mymble glowed. "Ooh, I've turned eleven this year. I'm one of the eldest children in the house now, so I'm allowed to run errands."

"What about those other girls, er- Blomma and Milky?"

"Oh, Milken left a few weeks ago. We don't know where she is anymore. Blomma has gone to school."

"Ugh, school? Why?"

"Oh, she's very brainy. You should see her handwriting. It's posi-tively an-gel-ic." Mymble stepped away from the couch to twirl around on the floorboards, her red skirt fanning out beneath her. She looked so happy at the thought of her sister's lovely script that she could have almost floated off in a little pink cloud.

Snufkin stayed firmly on the ground. "I suppose she must be smart if she's important enough to have a proper name."

Mymble stopped her dancing and looked at him, curiously. "A proper name?"

"Well, yes- her name is Blomma, something entirely original- and your name is only old Mymble. Even I have got a real name."

"Are you a Mymble?"

"Do be quiet."

"Sorry. Do you think I should have a real name, then?"

Snufkin poured the rest of his coffee into the dreary aloe vera plant by the glass cabinet. "Only if you think you should."

"I don't think so. I _like_ my name," the mymble continued on with her little dance, tapping the heel of her boots against the floor so that it made a sort of rhythmless beat.

He watched her at it for a bit before something crashed very loudly upstairs, making them both jump. A tyrade of little high-pitched screams bounded down the stairs; and all hell seemed to break loose as the spell over the children snapped.  
One little boy came careering down the steps and launched himself towards Mymble.

"The chandelier smashed!" he shouted, going to climb her leg. She shrieked and picked him up by the straps of his overalls.

"Don't you bite me again!" she said loudly. She was positively trembling and holding the wretched boy at arm's length. He was very small, dark-haired and yellow-eyed.

"Snufkin!" he pointed at his older brother. "I want your hat!"

He clamped a paw over his head, flattening the yellow pansy that was tucked into the ribbon. "You'll take my hat when I'm dead."

"Let that be a promise!"

Mymble took her brother up the stairs, still holding him at arm's length from her body, and Snufkin watched them disappear up into the next floor. He sighed and leaned back against his bag, into the sofa. If he was having to live with fifty Little Mys for the week, he'd leave now if he didn't want to read Moomin's letters.

Ah. _Moomin's letters._

It was then that the front door opened from across the room; and Snufkin went a little rigid, wondering if he should stand up or not in case it was somebody important.

"Hello, hello, are we having guests?" A familiar voice drifted through from the outside. Somebody's leather boot kicked the heavy door open so that it swung and hit the wall with a loud crash.

He did stand up then, for it was the Joxter who walked into the front room with a big wooden crate in his paws. He caught sight of his son and raised one to tip his red hat politely.  
"Hello, who's this? Are we having guests?"

"Yes, it's me, Joxter."  
Snufkin left his bag and guitar on the sofa to take the crate out of his father's arms. It was extremely heavy, and he had to throw it down onto the kitchen counter before his whole body gave out. It clanked ominously.

"And what's your name?" said Joxter kindly, moving to open the crate and pull out a bottle of wine.

"... Snufkin."

"Snufkin..." Just as his father made to stow the bottle into the foil drawer, he paused with his back turned and seemed to process the name in his head.  
He then turned back round once again with a smile on his face.  
"Snufkin! You're here! How wonderful to see you. Come here, my lad."

They moved to embrace, and the Joxter thumped him on the back as if to hammer the two of them together.  
"I haven't seen you in a few years, haven't I? Did you get all of my letters?"

Snufkin stared at the wall behind them. Was his memory even worse than when it was before?  
"No, Papa, we met back in the autumn. Don't you remember? You were with us at the Muddler's son's birthday party."

The Joxter pulled away and looked at his son, eyebrows furrowed even if he was still smiling.  
"What? Birthday... When was that now? I'm sorry, my memory's not what it's been. I'm afraid your mother has to remind me of most things, bless her."

Snufkin's heart became heavy and it sunk, a little at a time, to the bottom of his stomach. He stared into his father's yellow eyes and felt a bubble of sadness start to grow in his throat:  
"I see. Well, she's upstairs taking a bath, but she'll be down any minute."

The Joxter had begun to stick the rest of the wine bottles into the other drawers and cabinets.  
"Isn't that fun? I suppose I should have taken a bath, too. Look!" He took off his red hat and revealed the absolute tangle of black hair underneath. "I've got a shrub on my head!"

They both laughed and went to sit back down on the sofa. Snufkin pushed his bag down onto the rug and sat right back into it so that his boots dangled over the edge. Joxter sat beside him and did the same, so that they both looked far too small in unison. Snufkin had always thought that he was just the right size in Moominvalley, but often when he was down South it turned out that he was often too big or too small for most things.

"How old are you now, my boy?" said his father lightly, folding his arms.

"I don't know," said Snufkin, truthfully. "How old do I look?

Joxter blinked. "Oh dear, let me see... sixteen? Seventeen?"

"Hello-o-o," called a loud voice from just beyond the stairs. The two of them turned their attention towards it and the Mymble appeared, wearing a huge pinstriped dress that took up every last bit of space in the peripherals. She was as big and smiley as ever.  
"Snufkin, how are you? I was beginning to think you'd never come!"

Snufkin stood up and was caught in a hug far too tight for a man of his size. His ribs ached when they pulled away from each other.  
"Hello, Mama. Forgive me, I got a bit lost on the way."

"Never-mind, never-mind; you're here now. What were you two whispering about, eh?"

"Do you know what age our Snufkin is, dear?" asked the Joxter, vaguely.

Mymble squinted her big eyes at her son for a moment before exclaiming:  
"He's twenty-one- no, sorry, twenty-two: that's it. You were born with many other children who are now all grown-up. I know I can be a little hazy about all the dates and years; but ahh, I remember you so well, darling. You were the one who used the industrial scissors to cut everyone's hair clean off!"

Snufkin smiled uncertainly. "Did I?"

"Yes! When you were three, you pulled those big heavy scissors right out of the basket and cut all the girls' hair- including your own- simply because I had told you not to."

"Oh." Snufkin felt very awkward. He would have liked to only ask for the letters and be on his way, but he knew that he would have to have dinner with them first. Snufkin was many things, but he wasn't rude. Most of the time.

The Mymble sat them down on the sofa again and brought the children down in groups of ten to meet their older brother. They were all varying in age- though some were only slightly taller than the others- and almost every single one had flaming red hair (except for a few of the boys, who had hair as black as the Joxter's). They were all very exciteable and spoke over each other in their tiny voices to ask Snufkin questions, such as:  
"May I wear your hat?"  
"Where do you live?"  
"Don't you know your socks are inside-out?"  
and  
"What's in your bag?"

After they had all introduced themselves to each other, Mymblemamma (a term coined by the children themselves, as he came to learn) told him that he could go up to the attic to take a rest from travelling so far.  
"I'll be making dinner; you may go upstairs and unpack your things in the meantime. Now, there's not a bed, but you can sleep on the old venetian sofa."

"That's alright, I have a tent. I'll set it up outside," Snufkin mumbled, peeling off a bit of sticking tape from the hem of his dress. There was a small note attached to it that read 'punk' in very untidy writing.

"Nonsense, you'll freeze to death. Go on, up you go." He was then gripped firmly by the shoulders and steered towards the stairs. "One of the kiddies will show you where it is. Mymble! _Mymble_ ! Bring your brother up to the attic, will you?"

The eldest mymble, with the nervous tap-dancing habit, took hold of Snufkin by the sleeve and tugged him up the weathered stairs with her head bent and her owly eyes forward. She didn't speak to him on the way, only pulled and pointed- leading him up to the very top of the mill until they reached a trapdoor.

"Mama can usually open it," she said sorrowfully, the distance between the top of her bun to the ceiling being vast.

"Stand on my shoulders and see if you can reach," Snufkin replied. He took hold of her under the armpits and lifted her right up above his head. Mymble wobbled a little bit before stretching out her skinny arms and pulling down the hatch.

"Got it!"

"Nicely done."

The trapdoor opened up and revealed a folded wooden ladder, which Mymble promptly tugged out and straightened up. She was lifted off of her brother's shoulders and tapped it proudly with her palm.  
"There you are. There are sheets and stuff up there already, because that's where Papa goes when he brings Mama dead birds."

"I see," said Snufkin wearily, lifting one foot onto the ladder. "Okay, thank you, Mymble. Run along now."

"May I play your guitar?" she blurted out suddenly.

He turned to give her a bemused look. "Afraid not. See you at dinner!"

 

The attic was extremely dusty and it had no windows at all, only a lamp hanging from the ceiling and wooden beams sticking out through the walls. The floorboards creaked loudly and complained under the weight of Snufkin's bag- but it was small, and warm; and there was indeed an antique venetian sofa by the curved wall.

He flung himself down on it and dust was thrown into the air. The sheets lay folded neatly on the ground, and were promptly unfolded and kicked across the room just so things could feel a little more homely.  
Snufkin was getting rather hungry at this point. He only hoped the dinner wouldn't take too long.  
He found himself longing for Moominmamma's cooking. The Mymble's pie at the birthday party had been nice, of course, but there was something different that Moomin's mother put into her food that made it so delicious every day. He would do scandalous things for some of her blueberry pancakes at this time.

Snufkin then thought of Moomin, with his hands behind his head and his legs danging over the back of the sofa.  
He must be sound asleep now, belly full of pine needles, dreaming... what did Moomin dream of? He used to always tell Snufkin about them, but Snufkin would always sort of zone out and nod at appropriate times during the lecture. Not that he wasn't interested in what Moomin had to say, but... they were never really _riveting_.

Snufkin turned over in the sofa. His own dreams had been strange as of late. They were mostly of them, doing things together; if times and ways had been different. But he would always wake up from them- and realise that they would have been only that, only dreams.  
He sighed. He really wanted to read Moomin's letters.

 

*

 

Usually, dinner would have been held outside where there was a reasonable amount of space and less risk of smashing important furniture- but tonight, it was far too cold. Instead, Joxter and Snufkin pushed three tables against each other from the kitchen to the front room and laid out the cutlery. Only one of them were normal-sized. The other was a coffee table, and the third was, in fact, a piano stool- but they still worked in terms of holding enough space if you really crammed the children together.  
Instead of plates, the little ones ate out of saucers; and they drank out of the Mymble's antique shot glasses. Thankfully, Snufkin was given a regular plate, even if it was cracked down the very middle.

He sat at the very edge of the big table, in between the eldest mymble and five little boys who all stole obvious glances at him every ten seconds.  
The Joxter sat at his opposite and had his paws splayed on the table.

"I wonder what's for dinner," he muttered aloud, staring into some unknown void beyond Snufkin's shoulder.

"Scalloped potatoes," said the eldest mymble, proudly. "I helped."

"Good girl," her father replied monotonously.

Snufkin glanced over towards the kitchen area and saw his mother scooping out the potatoes onto each little dish, one by one. In an instant he was reminded of Moominmamma, and how her son had always jumped up at any given moment to help out. He stood up immediately and walked over to stand beside her.

"Need a hand?" he said, rolling up his sleeves.

"Oh, my darling!" She leaned over to deftly remove his hat and kiss him on the back of his curly head. "No, you go and sit down. I'll get Mymble to help me."

"No, really, she's already done lots today." Snufkin took one of the silver serving spoons from the rack above the kettle and helped to dish out all of the children's dinners. The Mymble hummed very loudly and happily along to the radio on the counter, and even swayed just a little so that her elbow knocked into the side of his head every so often. He brought the little saucers over to the tables, four at a time- until everybody had a plate in front of them and a truly hungry look in their eyes.

The smell was beginning to make Snufkin rather ravenous. He sat down in his place at the larger table and stared down into the potatoes in front of him.

The Mymble sat down and clapped her hands together. "Now, we're all sitting down, I assume- I hope nobody's sitting upstairs in a huff and missing out on their lovely grub. What do you all say?"

"Thank you, Mymblemamma!" said all of the children in almost-perfect-unison.

"Thank you," said Snufkin, a few seconds off.

"You're all welcome. Happy masticating!"

Every child started to wolf down their food at the word go. For once, they were all very quiet, and it was practically music to his ears. And the meal- oh, the meal was a positive godsend. Snufkin had truly underestimated how hungry he had really been.  
Not much was said, only a few giggles running through the children like the flu and the eldest mymble asking if there was any dessert (for she had already finished).

The Mymble shook her head.  
"No. It's winter, dear, your father hasn't been able to go apple-picking these days."

"Ohh... I do miss apple pie," said the eldest mymble miserably, staring at her empty plate.

When Snufkin had finished his own potatoes, he picked up his plate as well as his sister's and mother's. He then gathered the saucers of every child who had eaten all of their dinner and brought them all over to the kitchen sink.

"Oh, are you going to wash those?" said the Mymble from across the table. "Doesn't our Snufkin have such beautiful manners, Joxter?"

The Joxter made a noise of what sounded like agreement through a mouthful of potatoes.

Snufkin was brought the rest of the plates by the other children (who seemed to be picking up on his polite habits) and he washed them carefully one by one.  
He stacked each of them up by the sink on the metal part of the counter; and, just as he had begun to dry them off with one of the checkered cloths by the stove, Mymblemamma came right up behind him and patted him on the back.

"I'll do that. Really, Snufkin, you've been so good to us so far. You must be exhausted now."

"No, I'm perfectly fine-"

"I have something for you," she said, reaching into the pocket of her dress. "I had to fetch them from the back of the bedrest, but they're all still in one piece, anyway."

She pressed a stack of envelopes into his damp paws, all of which tied together with a piece of red wool.  
Snufkin recognised the lovely joint handwriting addressed to him immediately.  
"Oh!"

"Piles of them, eh? You and that Moomin child must be such firm friends. Go on, off you go to the attic. Rest yourself for the evening."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *breathes in ur ear* hhhhhghhh *whispers* punk is (lip smack) old-timey slang for twink 
> 
> https://suoraiste.tumblr.com/post/184579063750/another-thang-for-chapter-5-of-red-thicket-oo
> 
> A LIL SUMN I WHIPPED UP FOR DIS CHAPTER^^^^^
> 
> Happy may day yal  
> Sorry if it ends a little ABRUPTLY!!!!!!!!!!!! Its late and im headache and hhh...hhhgghgg(me breathing into ghe mic) hey girls did you know that uhm *immune system fails*


	6. The Extension Telephone

One knock on the door. Two knocks.  
"Too-ticky!"

No answer.  
Two more knocks, faster this time.  
"Too-ticky! Hello-o-o? Are you there at all?"

Moomintroll stood by the steps of the frozen bathhouse, his mother's shawl and apron wrapped around his shoulders. He drew them in tighter as a gust of wind almost cut him in two.  
The snow had frozen his paws, sent ice straight through his winter coat and into all flesh that touched the ground- and Moomin could almost understand why people wore shoes, socks, cardigans- the works. He felt as if he were being stabbed straight through his feet with an icicle. Several icicles!

A noise came from the inside. The sound of somebody trudging towards the bathhouse door almost made Moomin leap with elation.  
"Excuse me, who is it?" said a low, Scottish voice from behind the wood.

"It's me, Moomintroll!"

"Goodness!" Too-ticky clicked open the door, releasing a wall of warm air to the outside. She stood there, with her cap in her paw, the other resting on the hinges.  
"Oh dear. You had better come in and sit with me, poor sceatar. Was your voice always so deep?"

Moomin crept stiffly into the bathhouse, where he brushed the snow from his snout and settled his eyes onto the sight in front of them. It seemed to be a large iron pot on stilts, resting over a beautiful red fire in the very middle of the floor.  
The heat was rather intoxicating; and he sat down by it, drawing the shawls closer to him and shivering from the sudden contrast.

Too-ticky brushed the flyaway hair from her face and crouched by him. She hugged her arms around her knees.  
"You're awake."

"I am," said Moomin, very sadly.

"And your family?"

"Asleep."

"Aye," she said gently. "I thought as much. It's only December now, if you were wondering."

"Ohh," Moomin despaired, what was left of his optimism having crumbled away into nothing. Only December. So long a time to wait, so much snow, nobody to talk to- he would be alone.  
He started to cry loudly into his mother's shawl, covering his eyes.

"Why did this have to happen to me?"

Too-ticky rubbed his back soothingly. Her paw was soft. "Fuist, fuist- don't you worry now, poor Moomin. I know this must be very distressing and annoying for you, but you must stay dauntless."

"I can't bear it to be so early in the winter! Me, of all creatures- how many times will this continue on? How can I stay so intrepid when I only want to wake up in the spring and be with my Snufkin."

The fire flickered, causing the red light to leave Too-ticky's face for only half a second. She looked almost upset. "I know how you feel."

"Do you?" The words accidentally came out as abrasive and impolite.

"I do, Moomin. I wait in this bathhouse all through the harsh winter, so that the Mymble's daughter will come and see me on the beach when she wakes up. Every year I dream of the look on her face when it is that we sit on the sand and look out to sea."

They sort of stared at each other for a moment. Moomin drew his legs closer to his body and watched her, wide-eyed.  
"I didn't know. Every year?"

"Every year," Too-ticky repeated. "There isn't a second I don't think about her when she hibernates, and I'm so close by yet we can never speak for months at a time. And even when it isn't the wintertime, we can only hold each other if there isn't anybody else around."

Moomin felt his eyes widen as the realisation settled deep inside of his empty stomach. It set his heart to race in his chest.  
"Are you in love?"

She nodded, solemnly now. Her eyes laid to rest on the fire. "We are. Desperately so. But I don't let myself be so upset, because I know that Mymble wouldn't like me to be."

They both stayed quiet for the next while, thinking to themselves. Moomin's tail was flicking agitatedly with this newfound information. He would have never known if Too-ticky hadn't said anything, and he supposed he was honored to be so trusted with such news. He thought of Mymble and her past sweethearts, and how he was somehow happy she had finally found someone to love her back.

Too-ticky stood up and lifted the lid of the pot, releasing a billow of steam into the air. There was something cooking inside of it- and whatever it was, it smelled delicious. Moomin's stomach suddenly twisted with hunger, and he felt immediately grumpy once again.  
How unfair was it to be made to eat pine-needles in November? Snufkin had told him once that another reason he didn't hibernate was because of the feeling of hot food in your belly on a cold day. He had said it was one of the nicest feelings in the world.

"Are you hungry?" said Too-ticky, picking up a ladle from the cut-glass cabinet by the window and sticking it into the pot.

"Oh, yes," Moomintroll said, weakly.

"Good. I'm afraid I made a little too much soup. I'm getting better at fishing, you know."

 

*

 

Snufkin had received four letters in total. All of which were very neatly addressed, and had little flowers and leaves inked across the borders. They were so nice to look at that it was almost a shame to open them with his penknife.  
He decided to read the first letter on the first night of his stay, the second the day after, and so on. It was a way of savouring them, as if Moomintroll were still awake and sending them every day.

The first and second letters were in response to Snufkin's, the third being an abstract rant about old-fashioned ways. Moomin complained about his father, and how a good Sunday dinner would do much better than pine-needles, and how rude they were to ignore Aunt Jane's telegrams to wish them a good hibernation.

The fourth letter was a goodbye of sorts, written just before they went to sleep. Moomin rambled in this one a little bit, about the snow and the spidery trees and how he was desperately missing Snufkin.  
He ended it with a very small drawing of himself, the words "lots of love", and his own loopy signature.

Snufkin was amused. He never really understood why Moomin always had to sign off in that manner. It was funny.

"Lots of love," he said quietly to himself, pulling out the water bottle from the inside of his bag.  
"Lots of love... where does one get all of that sentimentality?"

His stay of four days had been alright so far. Blomma had come home from this mysterious school, only momentarily, to say hello to her family and pick up some old clothes from her wardrobe. The food was good and the pond had been a lovely spot to sit in and _ponder_ (haha).

There was grass right up to the very edge of the banks, except it was looser and made a loud squidging noise if you stepped on it. The plants that grew out of the water were pale, brown and green- with the tails of cats, and little ducks swimming through them as if they were forests. There was also a large old swan who lived by the little boardwalk. She regarded him warily every time he went to visit.  
Snufkin hadn't been forced to stand on his head or draw them pictures as he had been with the woodies, but the children had broken his guitar and bruised his cheek when they were playing war games. Snufkin had not been happy at all and had stayed in the attic for most of the third afternoon.

The guitar had been used as a warhammer and the neck and body were quite damaged now, bits of wood splintering everywhere the moment you tried to pick it up. Snufkins don't cry, so he wasn't too sad- but if there was one thing Snufkin would have liked to keep from this winter, it would have been that. He had been looking forward to playing it for Moomin when he made his return.

So, for now, the wretched instrument stayed sadly broken in the corner of the attic where he stared at it avidly before he went to sleep.

"Lots of love."  
Snufkin placed the waterbottle on top of one of the wooden beams.  
"Oh, Moomin, how I miss you."

It was on the morning of the sixth day, however- the day before Snufkin was to leave- that something very strange happened. The eldest Mymble had knocked on the trapdoor with the end of a broomstick to wake him, as usual.  
Snufkin woke with a start, got out of his tangle of blankets and pulled on his hat.

The mymble was staring at him quaintly when he opened the hatch.  
"Good morning."

He tipped his head in his odd salute.  
"Good morning to you. Is breakfast ready?"

"Yeah, it's porridge with golden syrup."

"Oh! Is there some sort of occasion?" he said, lifting down the ladder and climbing down easily. He was still in his pyjamas, but eating breakfast in your undergarments seemed to be quite a normal thing in the Mymble house.

"Not really. Come on."

He climbed down and followed her down the stairs. They passed by the ravaged battlefield of the children's rooms, the strangely clean bathroom, the little mushroom-shaped stools by the windows, and the photographs on the walls. They were mostly of relatives and the children.  
When they both reached the very last floor, the table had already set and the family all together.  
Well, except for the Joxter.

Snufkin sat in his customary spot by the very edge of the large table, where a bowl of sweet porridge had already been placed. Mymblemamma sat down next to him a few minutes later, already dressed and ready.

"Hello, love. When was the last time you had a bath?"

Snufkin ignored this. "Where's Papa?"

"Oh, I don't know. He started grumbling about having a 'chained life' after I gave out to him for leaving his old socks on the carpet."

"I see." He ate his breakfast quietly and swung his bare legs over the edge of his wooden chair. He could identify with his father sometimes. But most of the time, he was exasperated by his memory and laziness. In fact, Snufkin is rather sure Joxter has spent at least half of his visit asleep in creative places. The table, the counter, the window, under the sofa, behind the fire guard, on the roof...

"Before I forget, I have something for you when you've finished your porridge," said Mymblemamma, plucking a knife from the paw of one of her children. "It came in the post this morning."

"Post? I haven't ordered anything."

She laughed. "No, you silly goose, it's another letter from that Moomin boy."

Snufkin, spoon still in his mouth, gave her a confused look. "What?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full. I'll give it you when you're done."

Another letter? But hadn't Moomin gone into hibernation already?  
Maybe it had been delayed for some reason. Postmen aren't always so reliable. He remembers how Moominmamma once received a box full of metal cogs, and how sad she was that some poor fellow hadn't got what they'd ordered.

Snufkin dropped his bowl and spoon into the sink to wash it very briefly before walking back over to his mother. She turned around and prodded at the bandages behind his vest.  
"You go and take a bath, young man; you smell like god-knows-what. Here."  
She stuck her hand in her dress pocket and handed him the envelope.

He took it gratefully and went back up the stairs.

In the bathroom, Snufkin slid the brass lock into place and stared around for any hidden children. He was quite alone.  
It was strange, being barred from the other part of the house- there were no locks at all in his tent or at Moomin's place. He supposed it was a nice feeling, initially, but somehow felt dishonest. As if he had something to hide.  
He raised his paws to his hat and took it off, throwing it frisbee-fashion to the other end of the room. It landed with a soft 'whump' next to the tray full of little dishes.  
He then stepped up onto the wooden stool in front of the porcelain sink. The mirror, above the rows and rows of little red and blue toothbrushes, was very large and dirty; with a frame made of brass. There were little rose patterns welded and etched into it, dust and grime over the years settling into the crevices... And when Snufkin looked into it, he suddenly felt very frightened.  
He was far too small. His red hair stuck out in all directions. There was a dark sort of fur starting to grow on his nose, the same kind of his father's.

"Never-mind that!" He whipped behind the glare of the looking glass and sat on the cold tiled floor, now pawing at the letter.  
As always, the address was written beautifully, but there were no flowers this time. He ripped open the top and pulled it out.

 

It read:

" _S.O.S._

_I have woken up. It's halfway into December, and I doubt you're even still there; but I'm sending this letter to your parents' house anyway. And if you are, even if you're miles and miles away, I need somebody to talk to. Please call our house number. The Mymble will know it.  
I feel so lost._

Moomintroll"

 

He had to read it over and over again to make sure he wasn't making it up. The writing was blurred in some places, the ink spreading across the page, as if Moomin had been crying while writing it. Snufkin felt as if a lead ball had dropped into the pit of his stomach, like the porridge had turned to metal.

He jumped up, the letter clamped in his paw, and unlocked the bathroom door hurriedly. He skidded past the landing and, to the delight of the children playing by the window, used the mahogany banister to slide down the staircase as fast as possible.

Mymblemamma was still standing at the table, in the process of pouring a jug of water onto a pair of grappling boys. She gave Snufkin a scandalous look.

"Snufkin! How could you set such a terrible example!"

A few children had slid down the banister right after him, and were launched into the back of his head. He was knocked momentarily, but regained himself and hurried over to his mother.

"Mama, do you know the Moomins' house number?"

"What?" She looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Yes, I'm sure I have it written down somewhere-"

"I need it immediately!"

"Slow down, slow down, why? What's happened?"

He gave her the letter and she scanned it quickly. Her eyebrows seemed to furrow further with every word read.  
"Dear me... come, my telephone book is upstairs."  
They both raced towards Mymblemamma's room. It was on the third floor up, with the door painted red. When they went in, Snufkin immediately noticed another brass sliding lock. He decided not to dwell on it. The room was very big, very pink, and very perfumed. It smelled like Mymblemamma, only a thousand time over. The wallpaper, the carpet and the duvet covers were all pink floral- even down to the porcelain knobs of the wardrobe, which had little pink rose transfers.

Mymblemamma hurried over to her dresser and pulled out all of the drawers, rummaging through bits of assorted paper, lipsticks, and coins until she pulled out a tiny leatherbound book.  
"Here!" She rifled through the pages until she found what they were looking for. "Got it. Back downstairs we go."

When they reached it, Mymblemamma referenced the book while she performed some sort of complicated sliding motion with the extension telephone; sticking her fingers into the little numbered slots and doing whatever. Snufkin watched her anxiously, jumping when the receiver was handed to him.

"It's ringing now," she said. "Hold the top part to your ear and the lower part to your mouth."

"Okay," he mumbled, taking it from her in his slightly shaking paw and doing as he was told. Mymblemamma then started to shoo all of the little ones up the stairs, grabbing a newspaper from the table and lightly swatting at them with it.

He waited. An unholy noise came from the part at his ear, making him screw his nose up.

And then, a voice.

"Hello?"  
Moomin's kind voice came through tinny and muffled through the speaker. He sounded like black and white figures on the Mymble's television set, only close enough as if he had put his ear to the screen.

"Moomin?" he said loudly, heart thumping- not knowing whether to raise his voice or not.

"Snufkin!!" Moomintroll cried out in joy. "Oh, am I glad to hear your voice!!"

Snufkin hated the crackle, the cold smooth plastic against his cheek. He would have much preferred the real furry Moomin instead of this tiny staticky one.  
His heartbeat was going wild, he was scared- but he was so happy at the same time. They were talking, from so far away.  
"I can't believe this is really working. Can you hear me okay?"

"Yes!" Moomin seemed to burst into tears from the other end of the line.

"Hey, hey- Moomin, hello? Don't cry! Oh, please!"

"I'm just so happy, I've been so alone; I woke up because of that stupid grandfather clock in the landing, and nobody else was around, not even the squirrels. Well, I'd think so, after what happened last year. Poor Mr. Gray, god rest his soul. Too-ticky's here, I suppose. Oh, Snufkin, I've missed you so sorely."

"I've missed you, too," said Snufkin, softly.

"You have?"

"Of course I have. Did you get my letters?"

"I did! I read them every day after waking. Did you get mine?"

Snufkin giggled uncharacteristically into the receiver. "Yes, they were excellent. I really liked the one you wrote just to complain about your father."

"Ah. I had forgotten about that. What's this about a guitar? Can you play it? Snufkin- oh, would you play it for me?"

Snufkin blinked, eyebrows creasing. He sighed, making the phone crackle loudly. "I'm sorry, Moomintroll, my siblings broke it a few days ago."

"Oh no! Well, never-mind. You've always got your harmonica."

"I suppose. Are you eating well? Are you warm? Can you set the fire?"

"Of course I can! I'm grown, aren't I? Too-ticky's been feeding me. I go over to her house- I mean, the bathhouse- and we have fish soup. And in the evenings I light the fire and read your letters. I was so scared you would have already left when I sent you my last."

"You're lucky, I only received it this morning. I was going to leave tomorrow."

They talk for almost half an hour. There didn't seem to be any space for sitting in silence and enjoying each other's company- whenever they would stop talking, even for a second, that awful static would roar in his ear. He spoke about the house, his room, the field, and the children. He told all about the eldest Mymble girl, Blomma's visit, how his father was somewhere beyond the canola...

"He hasn't come home, but I'm sure he's fine," said Snufkin, who now sat on the doily with the telephone in his lap. "I just hope he hasn't forgotten where he lives."

"That's terrible; you really shouldn't let him out on his own," said Moomin.

"I think so too. I do worry about him. He keeps calling me Snukfin after writing it down wrong."

Moomin laughed into his ear, making his face go red. He smiled, for nobody could see him.  
"I'm sorry! I shouldn't laugh."

"That's alright. What are we if we can't jest?"

"You and your wise old head. Listen, I don't want to keep you any longer; I've just missed you. I've said that a thousand times already, but you know. I'll let you go now."

"Okay," said Snufkin, blinking at the wall. "Will we call tomorrow?"

"Really? Would you call me again?"

"Of course I would! And I'll send you letters too!"

"Oh, you sweetheart! I wish you were here. Well, goodbye, Snufkin."

He exhaled a little. "Goodbye, Moomin. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Keep your pecker up."

"I will. See you!"

"Cheerio." He put the receiver down and ended the call, leaning back into the wall to sigh and stare at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moomin be like: Knock knock lnock  
> Too ticky  
> Knock kcok knock  
> Too ticky  
> Knock knock knock   
> Too ticky
> 
> Too ticky be like: wha
> 
> Moomin: Bulgaria
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry 4 any mistakes... i was fkn ANGRY while writing this damn......  
> also i hope scots gaelic is anything like irish gaelic. lol making too ticky say fuist gave me so much seratonin The thing is .. i can kind of read and understand scots cus its basically irish but spelled wildly wrong


	7. Cow-Handed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruh so sorry for such a late update god TT____TT i was lookin at u and u was lookin at me and i was thinken Wooah woah woaahh woah woah oh oh

"Hello?"

"It's me," said Snufkin softly. "As usual."

"You know who came in to say hello yesterday? Mabel!"

"Who's-at?"

There was an exasperated noise. "Mabel. Mrs. Fillyjonk's maid."

"Oh?" Snufkin shifted from where he was lying down on the cabinet, the telephone itself perched on his stomach. His hat lay abandoned on the dusty floor behind him, and his head lolled over the back. It was something Snufkin used to do on the bridge when he was bored, just to hear the static of his own blood rush to his brain.  
"Why?"

"Part of this new fad where you stay up in the cold to exercise every hour, as if the snow will freeze your fat off. I think it stems from that Mr. Brisk character. Do you remember him? - Oh, what am I saying. Of course you don't, you were away."

"No, you told me all about him when I came home," said Snufkin, smiling now.

"Did I? Well, anyway, she wanted to see if I had any news on her sister Misabel..."  
Moomin's voice, be it soft and familiar like his own hat, started to fade away as Snufkin's attention honed in on the sound rather than the words. He closed his eyes and scratched the back of his head, listening, listening, listening...

"Are you listening?"

"Hmm?"

"I asked if you thought so too."

"Thought what, now?"

"Oh, nevermind. Do tell me some news, Snufkin. I'm so bored."

"News? Well..." He sat up on the cabinet and crossed his legs over one another. He wasn't wearing any boots, so he could twist them up like a Buddhist monk if he wanted to. "No good news, not really. The television broke. Kids threw a hammer into it."

"Oh my lord."

"Mm-hm. It put my mother in a terrible temper that lasted for a few days. Joxter still hasn't come home, either."

"And it's been, what, a week?"

"You got it."

Before the day of his and Moomin's first phone call, the Joxter had gone out in a huff one evening and simply never came back. One doesn't worry too much about joxters, they can find a good hiding place if they find themselves in a spot of bother- yet, because our dear Joxter was such an amnesiac, it was quite difficult not to feel a little worried. Snufkin was, in fact, very worried- though he did not let anybody know.

"Do _you_ have any news?" he said lightly, watching the hands of the clock move ever so slightly.

"Well, other than the story of Mabel, no. Not really. Unless..." there was a slight pause. "I met somebody by the bridge on my way to the bathhouse."

"And who may that be?"

Moomin sighed into his ear- the short, solemn kind. "Don't remember his name. He said it to me, but I was distracted by the winter flowers in his paws. I was on my way to the post-box when he caught me by the arm and said something about 'seeing me around', whatever that meant." Moomin's tone was dull, disinterested- yet, for some reason, this story in particular had Snufkin by the edge of the cabinet. He listened very carefully.  
"He told me flat-out that he wanted to be my lover. Can you imagine that? Imagine being so upfront!"

Snufkin's eyes were wide, and his eyebrows were creased into something alarming. "Your lover?"

"Yes! And I had never seen him before. Must have been that weird sort of winter-type that my mother always warned me about."

"What did you say?"

There was another pause. "Why, no. Of course no. I barely knew him. Not that he wasn't handsome, or- or nice, or whatever-" Moomin flustered. "No, I just thought... Well..."

"Well what?" Oh, Snufkin must have felt rather daring with all of these intrusive questions. He was shocked at himself for prying, _wanting_ to pry.

"I thought we- er, nothing. Never-mind."

 

*

 

The Joxter had disappeared.  
As it turns out, Snufkin had initially only intended to stay at the mill a few more days so that he and Moomin could talk every night on the line- but ended up having to stay much longer. The Joxter had simply gone, after years of staying happily married- vanished without so much as a word or a letter- and Mymblemamma couldn't go and look for him on her own.

He spent everyday walking, dragging his feet through the roots and leaves of the forests that surrounded the fields. They spanned for miles in every direction, all so thick with foliage and bark and scent- the smell of wet earth and grass only scaring him now that he knew how vulnerable his father could be if he were alone.  
He played his harmonica for hours at a time, for him and for Joxter. Just hoping somebody would hear. Hoping he would round a corner and find something he never wanted to see.

 

Snufkin was worried stiff. So worried, he thought he could crack at any moment.  
And one night, on the third week, he did.

 

"Are you... a singer?"

"I've already answered that."

"Yes, well, _you're_ only allowed to answer yes or no."

"Why waste another chance? You've only four questions left, now."

"Oh, Snufkin, you're so mean!" Moomin sat down on the floor by their old-fashioned telephone, the one fastened to the wall. He brought the receiver with him and tried not to chew his water biscuit directly into the speaker. "I'm no good at this game. Can't we play something else?"

"There is no better game than Twenty Questions," said Snufkin's tinny voice in his ear. "It challenges the mind."

"It's not fair. You know so much more than I do. The only celebrity I can name is Eartha Kitt," replied Moomin bitterly. "Let's talk about something else. Give me some news, you haven't called in two days."

"I'm sorry, Moomin. We're still looking for Joxter; I have to spend all day out in the forest."

He sighed. "He's truly lost, then?"

"I'm afraid he is."

"... And are you okay?" said Moomintroll softly, wishing with all he had that he could only be there to help.

There was no answer. Only soft breathing.  
He frowned into the speaker.  
"Tell me."

"No, no, I won't bother you."

"Oh, Snufkin, do. Tell me what's wrong."

His dear friend sighed shakily.  
"I've got such a terrible headache. The children don't understand, and all of the joxters have claws as they've come to realise. I'm afraid I've experienced them hands-on. Paws-on, I should say. And- oh- did you know Little My is my _older_ sister?"

"What."

"I daren't repeat the story lest I give myself a migraine, but..." Moomin could imagine him irritably rubbing his face with his paw. "Oh, you know. I'm worried."

"Justifiably so," he said, nodding as if Snufkin could see.

"I'm very worried. He's been gone a week and a half, with no letter- nothing. Papa could be anywhere."

It broke Moomin's heart to hear the crack in his voice. He couldn't really think of anything to say; so they merely sat, miles and miles apart, breathing very softly into each other's ears.

Snufkin spoke again.  
"Sorry. I didn't mean to ramble, I've just had a lot on my mind lately."

"Don't be ridiculous. Snufkin?"

"Yes?"

Moomin nervously fiddled with the tie of his bathrobe. "You can tell me, you know. If you need to get anything off of your chest."

There was no reply, only a quiet rustling noise- and then, nothing. Moomin blinked at the wall a few times before realising that Snufkin had hung up.

 

*

 

Snufkin jumped down from where he always sat, leaving the extension telephone and whoever lay waiting for him on the other side of the line.  
He felt bad for cutting it so short; but if Moomin had spoken to him for another second in such a soft voice, his heart would have failed- and he would surely have cried.  
Men don't cry.

 _Moomin cries_ , said a little voice at the very bottom of Snufkin's mind. _He's probably crying right now because of uncaring you are._

"I don't know how he sticks me," Snufkin agreed, running up the stairs, each step creaking and banging under his boots. "I don't know how he can look at me the way he does. I don't know why he calls me. I don't know how I can leave Moomin for months at a time every winter, just to whine to him on the line when he goes to the trouble of calling."

He'll never be free. He'll never know what it's like to free. Because he's sad, all the time, for different reasons at different times- different things and different people. His father goes missing after only coming back into his life for a few weeks. His guitar gets smashed. His head is pounding. He's in love with his best friend.

Snufkin stopped short by the bathroom door, his eyes widened- the fur on his arms and legs bristling.  
The heart that beat so blindly and madly inside of his little body seemed to stop, too- though in his mind, he wasn't so shocked. It was merely the admittance that made him shake so.

"What a thing to happen," Snufkin said, now walking very slowly. He held himself in his paws. "How stupid I am."

 

*

 

The eldest mymble sat by the coffee table, legs on either side of her body. There was a stupid tear in her skirts that she was trying her best to mend, but the thread simply wouldn't go through the eye of the needle; no matter how hard she tried to coax it.

One more try. She held the tiny thing, the silver of it shining in the evening sun- and licked the end of the thread to get rid of the fray.  
But, just as she raised the two together so that they almost met- the telephone started to ring at the far-end of the room. Mymble shrieked and dropped the pin into the rug.

"Oh no!" She brushed her paws about to find the needle- but alas, it was gone. "Damn the thing! That wretched machine!"

She stood up and walked over to the wailing instrument, picking up the receiver and calling into it in her best grown-up voice:  
"Hello, this is the Mymble residence."

"Oh. Hello, is this one of Snufkin's sisters?"

" _Moomintroll_ ," she drawled, daring to lower her voice into her best witch's inflection. "I've heard many things about you."

"May- may I speak to Snufkin? Please?"

"Never!" Mymble cackled. "You sorry fool. He's spellbound and cast-down, sulking by the sink, brooding by the bathtub, moping by the... the attic, and despairing by the dinnertable!"

"For God's sake..." Moomin's highly irritated voice was distant and quiet for a moment, as if he were holding the receiver away from his mouth. It became loud again as he posed the question in a clear, slow voice. "Where's your brother? Can you please hand the phone to him?"

"No, I can't," Mymble chided in her normal voice. "He's out."

"Looking for Joxter?"

"Bingo. Goodbye."

"Wait!" She smiled wickedly at the desperation in his voice. "Could you please pass him a message?"

"Maybe."

"Okay... tell him that I'm worried about him. I want to know if he's alright. We haven't spoken in a few days and he hasn't returned any of my letters. I don't know if it's something that I've done to upset him, or if he's just busy on the lookout- but I want to talk. I care about him dearly. Will you say that to him?"

Mymble raised her eyebrows. "Alright, I will. In return, may I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"Are you and Snufkin a couple?"

Moomin seemingly started to choke on thin air. He made a terribly embarrassing spluttering noise, and the line seemed to crackle like a fire before he got his bearings straight again. "A what?!"

"Are you in love? We've been wanting to ask, but Mymblemamma told us that it was none of our business."

"In love? Why, I-!"

"Brother is sighing a lot, and he won't eat anything. Don't you know we never eat while in love?"

Before Moomin could answer, Mymble was unfortunately caught very red-handed. She was grabbed by the waist and lifted straight into the air, causing her to scream bloody murder and kick her legs like a little donkey. Snufkin held her in an iron-grip, swerving expertly out of her reach.  
"You prying, pugilistic little pig," he hissed, using one foot to flip the telephone receiver back onto the cabinet. "How _dare_ you poke into _my_ private affairs. Get lost."  
He kicked open the red front door and tossed the poor child out, slamming it before she could get back in.

And when he picked back up the phone, Snufkin was in rather a towering temper.  
"Moomin?"

"Snufkin? Are you-"

"What have you been saying to her? What were you talking about?"

Moomin's voice seemed to pick up in as much if not more anger. He really was never one to keep much of a level-head. "I didn't say a _thing!_ Don't speak to me like I put those kind of ideas into the heads of every other person!"

"Oh, which ideas now?" Snufkin smacked his free paw down onto the countertop. "You think I- I- I'd ever be romantically involved with anybody, let alone a cow-handed milksop like you?"

"How could you-! I'm every bit as brave as the next person! I'm braver than you are!"

" _Stop calling me,"_ Snufkin said shrilly. "My father is lost. We have no means of contacting him. He could be _dead_ for all we know. I need to focus every bit on combing the forest to find him, and I don't have time to- to make myself-"

"What is this?" said Moomin, disbelief in his tiny voice. "I know you're distraught. I know you're on the knife's edge here, and I can tell- but you can't take it out on me. I thought you were better than that. I know you are."

He was right. Snufkin couldn't think of anything to say. He merely held onto the cabinet and tried to fight off the awful coil of fear and regret inside of him, that he had done something terrible to their relationship-  
What was it that he had said?

"There's something going on," said Moomin, calmer now. "Forget everything else for a moment. I know you feel it as much as I do.  
You go red whenever I say certain things. You flinch whenever I touch you, like it burns. You can't make eye contact with me for more than ten seconds without looking away and having this expression, like you've done something terribly embarrassing.  
What is it that I'm doing that makes you so uncomfortable, Snufkin? Is it merely me? It is because I'm bent?"

"What?!" Snufkin's eyes nearly ruptured right out of his head. He was sweating so much, and when his eyebrows raised to the extent that they did, he felt his own bangs scratch against them- clammy with fear. "Because you're-"

"You've been acting like I've got a disease ever since I told you," Moomin whispered. Snufkin could tell that he was close to tears. "Don't you remember? When we were by the pond?"

Oh, he remembers. He remembers lying with his bare chest to the sun, drying off the water, blowing smoke rings into the evening air. He remembers what Moomin said.

_One doesn't say it._

And it all suddenly clicked in his mind.  
"Moomin- Moomin, no, no, no, of course not- you've completely misunderstood!"  
He heard him start to cry on the other end of the line. "No! No, I- listen to me, oh god, I've fallen for you!"

Moomin gasped. There was then the heaviest of pauses they have ever had to sit through in the entirety of their friendship. Or, whatever it was now.

"You what?" Moomin's voice was quiet and wet with tears.

"I've fallen in love with you. I've _been_ in love with you, for so much longer than you know. I just never had the guts to admit to myself. To make it real." 

He slid down the cabinet so that he sat with his back against the glass. His legs were shaking too badly to stand. "You're so pretty, funny, weird, kind to me- it all made me feel so mixed up. And I suppose I only felt I'd be a terrible hypocrite if I let you get so close to me. You can't ever be free if you admire somebody too much."  
He paused. "I'm probably saying all of the wrong things."

"No, no, I... I'm just in shock. You can't have any idea how much I've dreamed you would say you loved me, Snufkin. Every night I think about you. What we could be. But I thought... I thought you wouldn't accept it. I thought you were uncomfortable around me because of what I told you."

"No," Snufkin whispered. "I was only in denial, my dear Moomintroll. I think I may have an idea."

"You do?"

"Mm-hm. Perhaps we dream of the same things at the same times."

"Oh, Snuff... so this is real?"

"I suppose it is."

"Do you really love me?"

"I suppose I do."

"Then I need to see you," said Moomin, his voice as soft as the fur on his back. " _Let me come to the mill."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a child i was forced to eat dog food for dinner  
> My fucking god every time i read over dis theres a new spelling mistake sorry im so stoopid guise


	8. The Flute

When Too-ticky came up the river to visit Moomintroll (and see how he was), she found him sitting by the steps of the verandah with his snout in his hands. His eyes were closed, and tears dripped silently down his cheeks.

He started when he heard her footsteps in the snow; and pulled the sleeves of his bathrobe over his paws, using the fluffy hem to wipe his eyes hurriedly.

"Whatever's the matter, Moomin?" she said kindly, rustling over to him in her oilskin jacket.

Moomin looked at her with pitiful red eyes. "Ah, nothing- I've only lost something."

"Lost what?"

"A beautiful piece of seaglass," he sighed, cupping his chin in his paws. "It was the bottom-piece of an old bottle. I was saving it for Snufkin's birthday, as it would have made for such a perfect little ashtray."

Too-ticky sat down beside him on the steps and slapped her knees.  
"Now, now, don't cry so- I'm sure it'll turn up. Snufkin's birthday isn't for months and months."

"Yes, but... you see..." He nervously started to fidget with the ties around his waist again. "Hmm. I suppose I should tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"You won't say anything, will you?"

"Of course not," she removed her bobble hat and crossed an X shape over her chest. "I swear by my hat."

"Well, alright then. I'm going to leave Moominvalley in the next day or so to travel down South. I'm visiting Snufkin in his parents' house."

Too-ticky grasped her knees and stared at him, blonde eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"

Moomin gave her a pleading look. He shifted around on the steps so that they creaked horribly and so he faced her, his paws clasping together as if in prayer.  
"You see- Snufkin and I are in love!"

"Yes, we know; but _South_ , Moomin? Alone? You can barely pass by the Lonely Mountains without several escorts!"

"Whatever do you mean, you know?"

"What _do_ I mean? Were you not already an item?"

"An item??" Moomin choked. "But we've only just-!"

"What? Alright, no, that's your business- you simply can't leave Moominvalley on your own. You will surely have yourself killed by the second day."

"Well, pardon me! I am twenty-whole-years old, Too-ticky, I think I can manage a simple walk in the same direction for a week!"

She pinched the bridge of her nose irritably. "If you think it's 'a simple walk in the same direction', then you're truly beyond help."

He crossed his arms. "Well, that was obviously an exaggeration. Beyond help indeed. I don't need help."

"Yes, you do! If your poor mother wakes in the spring to find you a lonely red smudge down in the ravines, it'll be my fault for letting you go alone. I'll have to come with you."

"No!"

"Yes!" Too-ticky brought her paw down by her thigh and gave him the hardest of looks. "Do you even know where the house is? Do you have any sort of address?"

"As a matter of fact I do," said Moomin, sticking his snout in the air petulantly. "Snufkin gave it exactly through the line."

"Och, I don't trust telephones. Horrible machines; worse than vacuums," Too-ticky grumbled to herself and shook her head. "He'd have been much better off writing it down himself and sending it."

"Yes, well, that would have taken too long and he expects me immediately. So, if you don't mind-" Moomintroll stood up and turned towards the front door. "I have packing to do."

"As do I. Listen, you go and look for that ashtray and I'll make you some soup."

Moomin stopped with his paw on the handle, ears pricking involuntarily- he batted at them sharply to stop any sign of interest. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to stop the rumble in his stomach from soounding across the wood.  
Too-ticky smiled fondly.  
"You know you want some."

"I'll consider it," he said, opening the door. "Thank you."

 

*

 

Later on, the two of them sat in the front room by the fire- with two little bowls of fish soup at either side. In front of them lay a huge paper map.

"And why is it that you want to go? Just to see him?" said Too-ticky, sticking a spoonful of soup into her mouth.

"The Joxter is lost," Moomin replied, sadly. "Snufkin's in a state. I want to help in the search."

"Oh dear. Joxters can be like that, you know. They tend to move in and out as they please; almost impulsively."

"Yes, but... this one in particular has severe amnesia. He could have simply gone for a walk and forgotten his way home. You must understand, Joxter's in a terribly vulnerable position."

Too-ticky nodded thoughtfully, placing the spoon back into the bowl.  
She then pointed at a spot over yonder by the North coast, where the land curved slightly and the hills were greatly pronounced.  
"That there is Moominvalley," she said, tapping it a few times. Then, she dragged her finger down, down, down to the centre of the map; where there was nothing in particular. "And this here, is where we are headed. This will take weeks on foot. We will need lots of food, jumpers and torches. However, if you and I were to travel only to this point-" her finger scittered over to a point far beyond the valley's southern forests, where a harbour was marked. "Where the ocean isn't frozen, we could borrow a boat to the South. That will be much faster. That way we can cut across, you see."

Moomin nodded, his own spoon clamped between his teeth. "I see indeed. I'm quite familiar with boats, anyway."

"Exactly. And, as well as that, the mountain air would have made your poor lungs shrivel up again."

He shivered and clutched at his throat, imagining the pain and panic of an attack and the rush of epinephrine. "Yes, I don't want that."

Above the fireplace, on the metal counter, there was a little torsion pendulum clock encased inside of a glass bell jar. This clock in particular had been a gift to his dear mother on his parents' anniversary a few years ago, and could run for a year on a single winding. The balls would turn for hours and hours on their spokes, and Moomin would watch them comfortably from the sofa. Waiting for the chime.

It was a nearly five o' clock now.

Too-ticky sat back and emptied the rest of her bowl far too quickly to be considered polite. She dropped it (not carelessly) onto the floor and squinted at the map once again.  
"Strange place for a mymble to live, in the middle of nowhere. I would have thought she'd like to live in a city, where there are lots of people."

"The Joxter isn't so fond of crowds," said Moomin thoughtfully. "That's what Snufkin told me."

She leaned back and twiddled her thumbs over her stomach. "Ye-e-es... the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"I suppose, but they're different in other aspects. Joxter loves shiny things, I've heard. He keeps thirty jars of eardrops and rings and bottle-caps behind a great velour curtain in the attic, and Snufkin wouldn't ever dream of holding so many useless things in his possession."  
Moomin watched the chrome balls spin on the counter. "Well, I say useless, but you know what I mean. I like shiny things too, but not to that extent. He also likes to catch little birds and insects, and he eats them whole on the spot! Can you imagine! Snufkin is a strict pythagorean. Or, pescatarian. Whatever they're calling it nowadays."

"You sound like your own father, Moomin," Too-ticky chuckled, closing her eyes. "Always rambling."

"I don't ramble."

"You certainly do. Now, you might as well go and show me what you've got packed in your knapsack."

Moomintroll stood up and padded over to the staircase, where a large brown bag sat by the floorboards. He hauled it onto his shoulder and brought it over to the fire, where he then unbuckled the strap and pulled out his things.  
There was an ornate compass, one of Moominpappa's hand-drawn maps, an offiziersmesser, a leather-bound notebook, pencils, his ocarina, a stolen zippo lighter, bandages, and spare rope. Too-ticky inspected each individual thing very carefully, turning them this way and that.  
"Are you bringing food and water? It'll be about a week's trip."

"A week!" Moomin despaired. "I suppose I'll have to. We have lots of jam in the cellar."

"I'll bring my fishing things. Yes, these'll do. Though, you'd best bring some sort of hat with you, too- unless getting frostbitten ears is on the agenda."

"Oh!" Moomintroll clutched as his velvety ears and tried not to image what he'd look like if they fell off. "No, no. I'll find something."

 

*

 

Meanwhile, Snufkin was sitting loosely in the highest branch of a tree, one leg tucked under his chin and the other swinging by his side. He had spent the last four hours or so walking through the rain round and round, playing his mouth-organ; only to find nothing but hedgehogs.

He was soaked to the bone, cold, and deeply frustrated, and it poured out into the song that sang to the dripping leaves.

" _His hair was bright as beaten gold,_  
And soft as spider's spinning, O!  
And in his eyes you might behold  
My joys and griefs beginning..."

"Oi! Is somebody there?"

The shout- come from somewhere below- startled poor Snufkin into jumping (what could have been a foot into the air) and banging the back of his head on a protruding branch. It knocked his hat clean off; and he watched, forlornly, as the old green thing swayed to the ground like a paper fortune teller.

Snufkin wasn't deeply concerned, only mildly irritated that he would have to use his claws again to climb back down- until a head, a pinprick against the grass, scuttled by to pick it up.

She looked up and waved it at him, along with a gloved paw.  
"Hello! You've dropped this!"

"I'm aware," he called back, swinging down from the branch to latch onto the tree's bark. Slowly but surely, Snufkin picked his way down and down until he could safely jump to the ground; where his boots landed in a patch of orange snapdragons.

He turned to face the girl with his hat, paw outstretched to take it.  
She was around his height, if not taller; a violin case strapped to her shoulder with a few old nylons. Her red-blonde hair stuck to her face and neck with the rain, and her eyes were large and owlish. They stared at him intently.

"Hang on," she said, slapping her paws against her hips. "Do I know you?"

The urge to say something rude in return was overturned. Snufkin instead raised his red eyebrows and gave her a plaintive look. "Do you?"

"Yes! Why, you're Snufkin! How do you do? Oh-" she thrust his hat into his arms. "Here. Don't you recognise me?"

He took the hat and shoved it back onto his head. "No."

"My name's Milken," she said excitedly, adjusting her own tweed flatcap. "I came by to visit you in Moominvalley with the Mymble and all of my siblings."

Snufkin squinted at her. Yes, he knew now- she had been one of the two Mymble children who were simply too old to sit on the picnic blankets. He remembered her hair to be shorter then, and there had been less dirt under her fingernails.  
"I remember you. It's lovely to meet you again. We thought you'd left the family."

"Oh, but didn't you, too? It's fantastic, isn't it? A life of your own, with no rules and no baths on Sundays-!" Milken widened her brown eyes and flared her nostrils with pride. "Won't you walk with me? Tell me a story?"

"I'm in no mood for stories," said Snufkin, reluctantly digging his hands in his pockets. "But I'll certainly take a walk."

They begin to stroll eastwards, side by side; through the tansies and frosty grass. Milken was as she had been those many months ago- a little dim, but friendly enough. Her hands wrung awkwardly as they moved, sometimes flicking and twitching with every raise in her voice. She didn't seem to know when to keep quiet and when to speak up.  
And she spoke enthusiastically about the little town beyond the forest, the amber in the trees, and her life as a translator for the newsletters.

"... I'm fluent in French, you know. You'd be surprised how many francophones live about here and there," Milken sighed, giving him a look of admiration. "Or perhaps you wouldn't. I've heard you've been all over the world."

"That's rather an exaggeration," said Snufkin awkwardly. "I've only been to Berlin and Amalfi."

"You what?"

"Er- Germany and Italy."

"Italy!"

"Mm-hm... not to change the subject, but may we go back to the mill, Milken? I know we're having pasta and chives for dinner tonight."

Milken brought her paw to her nose. "Chives, eh? It's tempting. Would it go against the ways of a vagabond to return to one's old house for dinner?"

"No," said Snufkin. "Vagabonds do as they please. And right now I'd please for some pasta."

 

*

 

When they reached the mill, Milken stepped up onto the large corner-stone and knocked the front door three times.  
"Usually I'd use the window, but I suppose now I'm only a visitor," she said thoughtfully, digging her hands into her pockets. "How strange."

The door opened. The little Mymble stuck her head out and gasped. "You!"

"Hello!"

"What are you doing here?"

"I've heard you're having pasta tonight," said Milken, sticking a red patent shoe into the crack. "Let us in, we're wet."

"Is Snufkin going to manhandle me again?" said Mymble warily.

"No." Snufkin grabbed the side of the door firmly in his paw and pushed it open, making her stumble backwards.

Mymble's face went rather red and tears welled in her glaring eyes. She stamped her foot on the worn floorboards and showed her sharp teeth. "There you are, pushing me around again because I'm little! I won't forgive you!"

"Sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"Mama!" Mymble shouted, turning herself towards the staircase. "Snufkin's being horrid!"

"Don't you bother her," he placated, letting Milken step inside before closing the door behind him and untying the laces of his boots. "I'm sorry, Mymble. Did I hurt you?"

Mymble stormed away from her older siblings and started to climb the stairs with an unnecessary force. "Yes!"

"What was that all about?" said Milken, kicking off her own muddy shoes.

"I caught her on the phone with my friend in Moominvalley, asking them all sorts of intimate things that weren't any of her business. It was only fair that I would throw her out of the room for a few minutes."  
He walked over to the squashy sofa and sat cross-legged on the turkish kilim cushions. Milken sat next to him, her own legs long enough to reach the floor.

"Ah, you live in Moominvalley, don't you?"

Snufkin pulled the damp brim of his hat over his eyes. "No."

"Oh. But surely you don't live _here?"_

"I don't."

"I see. Never hurts to check."

Mymblemamma's loud footsteps and laboured breathing sounded from the staircase. She appeared at the foot, with a pale-faced joxter in her arms. The poor little thing held a bowl in his paws, and looked as if we were about to be sick at any given moment.  
She smiled at them by the couch.

"Hello, dears. Long time no see, Milken. How are you coping?"

Milken tipped her hat. "Not too bad," she said, a little too loudly, with an odd sort of jerk in her paw. "How about you?"

Mymblemamma sank into the great plush armchair and crossed her legs, cradling her one of her little sons. "Oh, I'm alright. I'll be out with a few grey hairs by the end of this winter, that's for sure. I don't suppose you've heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Papa's gone astray," said Snufkin.

Mymblemamma nodded. "Indeed he has. Without a word to the poor wife. If I find he isn't dead or mortally injured, I'll be very angry. Yes! You can gasp, Snufkin! But I'm getting more and more wrinkles every day worrying myself to death about that miserable fool!"  
The joxter in her arms retched loudly in her lap. She merely tutted and rubbed his back. "I wouldn't mind if he wanted to get away from family life, if only he had left with a notice."

Oh. That left Snufkin with a familiar guilty pang.

"There, there; poor lad," Mymblemamma ruffled the dark hair of the little boy. "What would you like for dinner?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, miserably.

"You must eat something. We're having pasta tonight."

"Don't want pasta."

"I want pasta," said Milken excitedly, sitting up straight as a ruler.

"So do I. Will Moomintroll be calling tonight, Snuff?"

Snufkin blinked. "It's likely."

"Then I'd better get cracking. Will you help me, Milken? And will you mind this chap, dear?" Mymblemamma picked the joxter up and raised her eyebrows at her eldest son. "He's coming down with a bug and needs to be quarantined. I haven't the time to deal with fifty sickly darlings."

Snufkin obligingly hopped off of the sofa and plucked the little one from his mother's paws. The poor thing held for dear life onto both his green dress and the enamel bowl, scrunching his black nose and wrinkling his chin. Snufkin held him securely and sat back down onto the couch, pulling his yellow scarf over his mouth and nose as a precaution.

And while the two ladies busied themselves the kitchen, the brothers lazed by the cushions and said nothing in particular. He was glad of it. The little joxter flinched every time Milken dropped a pot or a pan, sank his tiny claws into Snufkin's ribs, coughed into the open air, and retched dangerously close to his brother's sleeve.

"In there," said Snufkin alarmingly, pushing the bowl under the boy's chin. "Not on me."

"Sorry."

"No worries. What's your name?"

"Jukka."

"And what age are you?"

He sniffed. "Nine."

"Heavens. Same age as my children."

Jukka gave him an astonished look. "You've got children?"

Snufkin then felt very embarrassed and scratched at his nose. "Yes, well- adopted, I have. Twenty-four woodies. But most of live with the theatre."

"Have you named them? Do you see them often?"

His ears burned under his hat. "Golly, they already had names before I met them. I'm sure I can remember all if I put my mind to it. But I do visit, every year- during the winter. When they have their annual winter play to show me."

His thoughts lingered on the play. Snufkin usually showed up near Spruce Creek (where the theatre now lay) in early January, just after New Year's Day. He supposed it was coming by closer and closer; and that he'd have to leave soon if he ever wanted to see it in time.  
Perhaps Moomintroll could come.

The thought of him only made Snufkin's face and ears burn ever warmer, and the residing embarrassment thumped at his chest through his heart. He had been avoiding the usual silly daydreams of that boy for more than a few days now, refusing to linger on that phone call, saving that sound of Moomintroll's voice as he said those certain things...

 

_"You'll really let me come? So we can see each other again?"_

_"We need you, and a few people on the way to help- if you're willing to pick them up."_

_"I will. But I must see you alone, even if it's only for a moment."_

_"Oh, you'll turn me permanently red if you say things like that..."_

_"But you look so sweet when you blush."_

 

The sound of Jukka throwing up into the enamel bowl pulled Snufkin sharply out of that train of thought.

 

*

 

Later on, at the dinner table, somebody came through the door without a single knock. Everybody looked up to see who it was- and were greeted with the pitiful image of a girl in a sopping wet coat and a broken umbrella. She shook the old thing off like a great black bat outside of the threshold, and then dumped it into the metal can by the window.

"Hello, Blomma," Mymblemamma called from the table.

Blomma, who looked very disgruntled and ill-tempered, removed her cloche hat and shoved it onto the coat-rack along with her coat. "Hello, family. I make a dashing return."

She turned and caught sight of Milken, who smiled and waved by the kitchen counter where she had been eating her pasta. "Good evening! You're very wet."

"Oh no, It's lovely outside," Blomma muttered sarcastically, walking closer to the table with every sorry click of her shoes on the floorboards. Milken frowned at her plate and opened her mouth as if to contradict, before closing it again.

"Papa still AWOL?"

"Afraid so," said Mymblemamma, dishing out a spare plate of pasta from the pot in the centre of the table. "You may sit at the sofa, dear. Take off your shoes and stockings and tell us about your day."

Blomma took the plate along with one of the children's forks before throwing herself onto Joxter's armchair by the fire. A positive storm of dust was launched into the air around her, making her shriek and cover her eyes. "Really! Has nobody sat on this wretched thing in so long? Do we not have a vacuum?"

Mymbemamma smiled. "That reminds me; Snufkin, I've been meaning to ask you to clean the front room. I know you're a dab hand at polishing from those unsaid antics by the sink."

Snufkin glared at the table and made a mental note not to clean the dishes (unless asked) ever again. All this living in a home with so many women was turning him awfully compliant. The sneaky children who managed to escape the table and inspect Blomma's schoolbag had since lost interest in her leather pencil-case (which was full of sensible things, such as metal rulers and bookmarks) and had all but retreated to the second floor of the mill. The rest followed quickly suit, leaving their empty plates strewn across the piano stool and coffee table.

Blomma sighed into the resounding silence. "Ahh! Why is it that you keep having so many children, Mama?"

"Oh, you know me, dear. I live for the romance."

"I'm _eating_ ," Snufkin muttered. They only laughed at him. He shoved a piece of bread into his mouth angrily.

Mymblemamma crossed a leg over the other, her slippers dangling.  
"Blomma, do tell us what it was that you learned in school as of late."

She kicked off her barebacks on the rug.  
"Nothing much since last visit. School. Study. _Professors_."

"Oh! You naughty thing. You must tell me more about this Mr. Thom you've been writing about."

"Another time. I've been learning shorthand, German. A bit of Latin, too: our classes were mixed up, and we accidentally sat in on a foreign lecture."

"How modern!" Mama clapped her manicured paws together. "I do love Latin. When I was a little girl, I had to learn all of my prayers in it. Lots of hymns, too; I used to be a lovely singer." She proceeded to belt out a complicated song in a truly terrible wobbly soprano. Milken waved her paws about to every 'ave' and 'maria', whereas Snufkin simply stared at his own fingers splayed on the tablecloth.

"There!" said Mymblemamma proudly, giving her children an expectant look. "Now you know where you got all of your nifty musical talent from, Snufkin. I know Joxter can't play for toffee."

"That's not true; he can play the flute in the basement," said Blomma. "I've heard him before."  
Snufkin glanced at his mother, who waved this away dismissively.

"No, no; you know how he is with his memory. There isn't a song he can play without stopping and stuttering through it."

The thought of not being able to remember how to play his mouth-organ left Snufkin with a strange sort of raw feeling in his stomach, like something had been taken away from him. It put into perspective how lost one with such amnesia could feel.  
He thought of Moomin, waiting at home by the sea, and how awful it would be not to remember his dear face.

"I didn't know we had a flute in the cellar," he said, loudly. "May I go down and look at it?"

"Wash my plate and you can," replied his mother, brandishing her dirty plate as he stood up and made for the kitchen.

 

Milken dumped her own cutlery into the sink and looked excitedly at her brother. "I'll go with you, I do love Papa's flute. Can you play?"

"Yes," he replied, scrubbing the dishes quickly and roughly. "Well, it was this little hand-carved thing I had for some years. The holes were fashioned into little flowers. Unfortunately, I had to trade it for some coffee beans in an emergency."

"That's a shame. Haven't you got a mouth-organ, as well?"

Snufkin pulled it out of his pocket. "Mm-hm. A gift from our great aunt. See, it's gold."

Milken took it carefully from him and inspected it. "Beautiful."

"Isn't she just." He finished the washing and took it back, dropping it into his pocket once again. "Let's go."

They left the kitchen and took to the little painted door behind the staircase, where which another set of stairs lead them down to the basement. Milken took the lamp and matches that lay by a wooden crate and lit them, lighting the whole room.  
There were things like spare toys, summer clothes, cardboard boxes, blocks of paper, old shoes, wellingtons... Milken waded through the mess to a shelf on their opposite side. She pushed the dusty Bibles and encyclopedias about until finally something large and wooden poked out of the scraps.

"Here!" She awkwardly pulled it out and held it before the light. It was as almost long as Snufkin's whole arm, made of rosewood and nothing else. Milken placed the lamp on the shelf and held it in the correct position.  
"Papa taught me how to play it when I was little, just after he decided to move in. He used to play it all the time, you couldn't think without hearing it flutter away downstairs." She brought it to her lips and blew, letting it sing the most mournful sound.  
"Oh dear! Perhaps I'm a little out of practise."

"May I try it?"

She handed it to him. It was much larger than his old one, but Snufkin still knew how to play. He played something slow and sad, as if the flute itself for looking for something, somebody. Its old player.  
It continued on. Milken carefully lifted the violin off of her shoulder and opened it, very quietly, watching him the whole time. She opened the case and brought it out, lifting the beautiful thing onto her collar bone.

And without a word, she started to play along- not merely the same melody, but a song in itself- an accompaniment. It was ironic in a way that she was fumbling, awkward and uncomfortable with perhaps almost everything she did; but when she brought the bow to her strings, Milken could have been anything but.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the song they played: https://youtu.be/IMlwEMtIzr0
> 
> Ima have to continue dis tomorrow issa school night 😳😳 consider next chapter as just immediate continuation or watever u kno what i mean hhggnnnggh


	9. The Flute (cont.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theyre swag
> 
> Who?
> 
> The swaggy fellow reading this

Snufkin stopped playing. He took his father's flute away from his mouth and stared at it sadly.  
What was he doing, using Joxter's things when he wasn't there to hear him?

"Let's go back up," he said sadly, placing the instrument back on shelf next to a hastily-tied manuscript of ambiguous newspaper cuttings. He brushed the yellowed paper with his fingertips before shoving his paws back into his pockets.  
"My friend'll be calling me soon."

Milken stuck her violin back into the case, whacking the neck of it off the hard velvet- so that the cellar echoed with the resounding bang of four strings playing at once. She flinched and screwed up her nose. "Oops. Yes, let's."

The two of them trudged up the stairs in silence; save for the creak of each step, worn pale from years of little feet on the wood. Mymbelmamma was still sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed over each other, and Blomma was still curled up into a crabby ball on the armchair. There was a letter in her paws, lavender paper, and she shoved it guiltily up her skirt the moment Snufkin and Milken had resurfaced in the kitchen. Her face went very red, and she had the air about her of somebody who had been caught doing something very embarrassing.

"What's that, Blomma?" asked Milken. She casually slipped the salt shaker into her pocket, and nobody noticed except for Snufkin.

"Nothing," Blomma muttered, shifting in her seat so that the paper rustled conspicuously. "I'm tired, Mama. Can I listen to the transistor?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to bring it up to your bedroom," said Mymblemamma, standing up from the table. "Snufkin will be using the telephone and he needs his privacy."

Blomma raised her eyebrows and Milken giggled. He cringed by the kitchen counter and pulled his hat over his eyes, thinking: _Oh lord, why does she have to make everything out to be so dreadfully scandalous?_

"I don't know if he'll ring tonight or not, Mama. And even if he does, it'll be very brief; I suppose he's busy getting ready for his first trip alone."

Mymblamamma arched her back and stretched. "That doesn't sound like a very good idea. From what I've seen of him, Moomintroll seems a little too dependent. Are you sure he can do this?"

Snufkin made a vague sort of noise and kicked at a bit of bread that had fallen to the kitchen tiles. The truth was that he _didn't_ think Moomin was very capable of making the trip on his own, and that Snufkin had only really agreed to his comings-by after ten minutes of the troll's desperate begging. He needed space to think of what to do. Should he tell Moomin to stay? That was the prudent option. Snufkin could easily venture out and find some volunteers on his own, make it a matter of sensibility and leaving his emotions out of it when a level-head was so needed... but, truthfully, he was selfish. He wanted so badly to see his dear friend after so long.  
It was so hard to do as Snufkin usually did and simply forget; when there were letters in his knapsack, the word "love" written so carefully, the hushed, muffled conversations that spun so vividly in his mind.  
Every time Snufkin would sit and close his eyes, that boy would touch his thoughts and burn into the back of his brain.

"Won't you let me say hello to Moomintroll, Snufkin?" said Milken cheerfully, flipping the egg-timer in her paw into the air and catching it. "He was so kind when I met him last. And he was so good at listening to my thoughts on glass harmonicas."

"Er... alright, but I must speak to him first."

"I want to say hello, too," Blomma piped up from her nest in the armchair.

Mymblemamma glanced at her son. "So do I!"

"Lord give me strength, you'll all be able to greet him when he arrives."

"But I _like_ him," said Blomma, in a catty sort of way. "Please, Snufkin. You'll be able to talk to him your whole life and I only want to say hello for a minute."

At that very moment, the telephone started to ring on its doily by the cabinet. Snufkin exchanged a look with his mother for a second before strolling over to the living space and placing his paw on the plastic receiver.  
"Now, if you please..."

The ladies went upstairs.  
Snufkin breathed a blessed sigh of relief and raised the phone to his ear, waiting as he usually did for Moomin to speak up.

"Good evening!"

"Hello," said Snufkin quietly. He leaned an elbow onto the countertop. "How are you?"

"Good," Moomin breathed. "I've got something to tell you."

"I've... got something to tell you, too."

"I'll go first," he said, briskly. "Too-ticky forced my hand and now she's on-board. She's coming with me."

"Oh!" Snufkin smiled and patted his chest. "That's- that's good, I was actually going to say... never-mind. Tell me the news."

"Well, she came to visit this morning and I told her about Joxter and how I was going to leave soon. She then told me off sorely and insisted on becoming my guide. We're going to pass through the Southern forests and take a boat down the sea; that way, the trip will last only a week instead of several."

A week. "Good," he said, aloud. "Good. I was worrying."

"I can take care of myself," said Moomintroll reproachfully. "I can be resourceful."

"Not all the time, though." Snufkin smiled again and leaned both of his elbows onto the cabinet. He was feeling oddly elated, giddy. Must have been the nerves mixed with the relief.  
He then whispered into the receiver, in case anybody was listening: "I'm excited to see you."

Moomin giggled. "Ditto. I can picture it."

"Oh yeah?"

"Mm-hm. You, me, the attic. I'll turn the radio on."

Snufkin felt his face and ears burn. His tail started to swish and curl around his leg. "My family's nosy, we won't get a second in edgeways-"

"Excuses! You owe me a dance, if I do recall."

"I owe nobody nothing, fiend," Snufkin whispered, that silly smile sounding straight into his voice. The words seemed to grin in themselves. "When I dance with you, it'll be of my own volition. Now, what did you have for dinner?"

"Soup, sweetheart," said Moomintroll. "Too-ticky's finest. I also found a dusty old tin of shortbread biscuits under my wardrobe. Let's hope Little My won't remember she stashed them there when she wakes up."

"Did they taste any good?"

"Too dry. I prefer Mama's oat and syrup. Your gingernuts are also excellent."

"I didn't make them, merry-andrew, they came in a box!"

Moomin laughed, sending a spiral of jitters through Snufkin's bloodstream and sending his tail to thrash about madly.  
And it continued to do so all through the rest of their whispered conversation. He had to hold onto it and squeeze tight to stop the ginger tip swishing straight through the dust bunnies by the wall.  
They discussed the trip, the little limpid town just beyond the woodlands, the comely red and yellow villages nearby, and the different sections of general area that each of them could search through; whether it be in pairs or as individuals. Snufkin and Mymblemamma had searched perhaps the entirety of the western and easternmost part of the greenwood, making sure to search high as well as low. Snufkin had been in charge of treetop combing, having inherited claws and better eyesight.

"I don't suppose you'd want to do any climbing?" said Snufkin, a little weakly.

"No," Moomin replied. "I'd best stick to the ground. I've got a good sense of smell."

"Yes, you do. The children have told me there are caves in the northern parts of the holt, but I haven't gone there yet."

"But your vision would come in so handy! Can't you see in the dark?"

"Yes..." Snufkin scratched at the freckles just above his furrowed eyebrow. "But I don't much fancy underground places. It's not that I'm scared, of course not, I simply... don't like the whole idea."  
In other words, he was scared of caves. By himself, that is. Granted, a little company and a paw to squeeze could banish those fears like dirt to a handkerchief.

Moomin understood. "I know, I know. I'll go with you, if that's what you want."

"Yes," said Snufkin, gratefully. "I mean- okay. Sounds good."

"Well, on that note, I'll say my goodbyes; I must get ready," Moomin started, accompanied by a loud rustling noise. Snufkin was reminded to call for his sisters.

"Hang on, my sisters want to talk to you," he said, turning towards the stairs. "Milken and Blomma are both here."

"Wow! I thought Milken left home!"

"She'll tell you all about it," he said, darkly. "Hang on. Blomma! Phone!"

There was a loud creak in the ceiling, followed by a light pair of footsteps that appeared down the stairs to the very bottom. Blomma had changed into her nightthings, and now wore plain old carpet slippers instead of her gaudy heels.  
She took the phone from Snufkin's paw and held it to her ear awkwardly.

"Hello? Hi! Blomma, nice to meet you! ... I'm excellent, thank you... Oh yes, I am indeed... Haha!"

Snufkin listened to Blomma as he ambled up the stairs and squirmed in embarrassment at the realisation of having sounded so demented all this time. On hearing his sister become so garrulous on the line, one could easily be mistaken for talking to themselves like a lunatic. He was glad that he and Moomintroll most likely would never have to speak through the telephone again after this winter.  
He stopped at the few steps just hidden by the ceiling, and sat down to eavesdrop on the conversation. Snufkin was usually not so foul, but when one's sister is speaking to one's leman, such things can't be helped.  
Her voice raised a semitone or two, she laughed into the receiver, said "do stop!" and "you darling!" and other things that made him want to don the pine overcoat.  
Snufkin removed his beloved hat and held it in his lap, half-wishing he owned a pocketwatch so that he could tell the time whenever. Things were much harder to tell when you lived in a house.

"What do I think of him? He's a laugh. Got all bothered when Mama and I were talking about having children at the table. Isn't that just so funny? ... Yes! ... No, he's lovely. A shy old fellow... Smells a little weird, I must say. Does he smoke? ... I thought so, can't hear myself think without hearing him cough every other minute! ... Once or twice, we all have. Don't tell me you've never tried it..."

A minute later, Blomma called for him once again and he returned down the stairs. She stuck a paw in his wild red hair and ruffled it, handing the phone back.  
"There you go. That Moomintroll's a scream."

"Go and tell Milken to come down," he said irritably, batting her paw away with his own. He held the phone to his ear.  
"It's me. Other sibling coming down in a bit."

"Is it true that you're coughing up something awful?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop. She's exaggerating."

"Is she? It's that ghastly smoking habit, isn't it? And those bandages!"

Snufkin's paw twitched at his ribs. "No, it's not. Don't nag me."

"I'm not nagging, listen to me, I-"

"Hup, there's Milken," he interrupted loudly, spinning around to see her on the stairs. She smiled and bounded down, two steps at a time. "I'm passing her to you now."

Milken took the phone and said 'hullo' in a rehearsed sort of way. She pulled the salt shaker out of her pocket and started to flip it over and over again in her paw, and Snufkin did as he had done the last time and treaded up the stairs. Though, this time, he did not earwig. He wasn't quite in the mood to listen to her rambling about any more poxy instruments.

He went all the way up to the top floor and used this sort of hooked pole contraption to open the trapdoor. When he climbed up the wooden ladder and hauled himself up into the attic, Snufkin opened his bag by the sofa and took out his pipe.

 _I've been smoking this since I was about twelve,_ he thought angrily. _Why should there be a problem with it after ten years?_

He came down several minutes later to say goodbye after the ladies had finished their greetings.  
Mymblemamma then rounded the children up into the second floor and had Blomma help her send them each into the washroom, five at a time for their baths.

"Milken, you be a dear and watch them while they're waiting. I simply can't have them break any more valuables before our guests arrive," she said, pulling her bathrobe closer to her neck. The children, all bunched up together on the green patterned carpet, shouted high-pitched protests: "We didn't _really_ break the television! It was the ghost!"

"Which ghost?" Snufkin asked a very tiny mymble, a few steps away from the landing.

She turned towards him and slapped her paws on the floor for dramatic effect.  
"Haven't you noticed? Our house is haunted!"

"Oh, I see," said Snufkin, pretending to buy into their new silly game. "How big is the ghost?"

"Small," replied one of the little mumriks sitting by the teddy-press, sporting two black pigtails tied with parcel-string. "Not so small as we are, but small enough for an evil spirit."

"Evil, eh? Has it come to curse our house?"

"I think so," said the mymble, darkly. "It taps on our bedroom doors and leaves us letters under our pillows. You must help us banish it."

"Never fear, they call me the Great Exorcist back in Moominvalley," Snufkin lied, raising his paws to show his claws. He was not an exorcist, but he was certainly a fantastic horror storyteller. Even without the eerie light of a gas-lamp, the children drew closer to one another and regarded him fearfully.  
"Yes! I've been graced by the power of the Seven Archangels!" he pointed at the ceiling, indicating the sky. "And that means if even _one_ of you hide from the bath tonight, I will know; and God himself will command me to pull the wretched spirits of bad behaviour straight out out of your bodies! Through your noses!"

A few of the girls clutched each other and let out a collective frightened noise. Mymblemamma poked her head out of the washroom door and glared at him.  
"Snufkin, if I hear you terrorizing them another second, you'll have no supper."

 

*

 

That night, late enough so that the snowy owls watched him pass by, Moomintroll made his way back to his home from the bathing house. His feet were numb with the cold even if his winter coat grew fluffy and wild around his ankles. A path had been shoveled with Moominpappa's garden-tools a few days before, so that he did not have to trudge along in the snow; yet, the ground was hard and icy, and he did not own any boots.  
No, all he had was this old dressing gown.

Somebody, white as he was, stood waiting by the bridge. He wore a black jacket and trousers, and rested one elbow on the wooden ledge.  
Moomin stopped short a few metres away.

"Hullo," he said, nervously.

The fellow turned towards him and bowed his head. His long, crinkly whiskers seemed to twitch with a quite sort of defiance. "Hello, Moomintroll. We've met before."

Moomin nodded and drew the collar of the dressing gown over his mouth.

The man continued, turning round completely now. "I know you rejected me, I know you said you were already in a relationship to begin with- but I beg you, Moomin, please- give me a chance to become your friend. I dearly love you, and if I can't be your lover, then a friend is the next best thing."  
He pulled a tangle of wildflowers out of his jacket pocket. "Will you accept me?"

Moomin stared at the little bunch of red and blue flowers, fingers flexing and clenching. What on earth was he to say to something like that? He was cold, he was tired; and he wanted to go home, so he could fall soundly asleep. So the morning would come faster, so he could see Snufkin again as soon as possible.  
But this man was in his way. Blue eyes, thin white fur, curly grey hair. Paws that shook as they were outstretched.

Moomin sighed. "I don't even know your name."

"It's Nestor," said the man, quickly enough. "It's quite alright if you've forgotten. I don't mind, not many people remember me. But oh, I remember you. All the time, eveywhere."

He raised his paws to hush Nestor hastily. "Come now, old boy, one must learn to take a no-"

"I won't," Nestor insisted. "Please. I'm so lonely, and you're the most beautiful creature I know. Your fur in the moonlight against the snow..."

"Spare me! I really must go home, Nestor- I'm tired and cranky. If you push me now- as you are close to doing- I shall get very angry and make a childish scene in the middle of the valley."

Nestor took an eager step back. "Of course. Of course, I can understand. I'll be here in the morning."

"Don't bother," Moomin grumbled, walking past the man across the bridge and towards the house.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," Nestor called.  
"Goodnight!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zzzzzz sorry for a short chapter its only 00:13 and iam soooo tired... Fckn yawn bruh this is so dumb i can usually last up ages whats wrong with me recently -_- 
> 
> Art for this chapter: https://suoraiste.tumblr.com/post/184948311785/art-for-chapter-nine-of-red-thicket-in-which
> 
> Beautiful fanart (!!!!!!!!): https://bidemonbabe.tumblr.com/post/184850797011/fanart-for-red-thicket-chapter-7-by-suoraiste
> 
> More ambiguous art for this fic in general: https://suoraiste.tumblr.com/post/184950477555/moar-red-thicket-things-cus-several-people


	10. The Intelligence Game

The following morning, Moomin stirred in his bed at being woken by the sound of a pebble hitting his window. He stuck his snout out from under the covers and gave it a look, trying to figure out if he had imagined it or not.  
Another pebble banged against the glass, like a large black fly trying to get in.  
He kicked the patchwork duvet from his legs and swung them to the floor, standing up and creeping over to the window.

Moomin turned the latch and pushed it open. Outside, with his paws rubbing together and his feet buried deep in the snow, Nestor blew a cloud of frozen breath into the air and smiled.

"Hello!"

"What do you want?" said Moomintroll, rudely.

"I was wondering whether or not you'd like to join me for breakfast!"

"Blasted ermine," he muttered, ducking for a moment to grab his dressing gown. The draft was absolutely freezing.  
He pulled it on and looked out the window again.  
"Do leave me alone."

"Is that a no?"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"No."

"What?" Nestor's black-tipped tail fluttered in confusion.

"I said no!" said Moomin, exasperatedly.

"So you _will_ join me?"

"I- are you perhaps some sort of idiot?" he called angrily, slapping a paw onto the window ledge. "Enough of this silly charade. What do winter-folk like you even eat?"

"Oh, I'm vegetarian," said Nestor, kindly. "I wouldn't eat any sort of fish or birds like my family does. I do, however, have a refined taste for cheeses and eggs."

"Cheeses?"

He nodded. "Oh, yes! The finest. And, ahh, that as well as the wine-" Nestor kissed his fingertips and clutched at his heart, dramatically. "Fit for a king. Please, Moomintroll."

Moomin rolled his eyes and hooshed his knees up onto the window ledge, turning as he did so. He gripped the metal handles and lowered his feet onto the ladder, and from there, he climbed all the way down until he reached empty flower beds below. He did his customary shiver.

Nestor waited for him patiently, wearing a truly awful knit cardigan and a dopey smile on his face. "Oh, I'm so glad. I live up in the old oaks by the mountain caves, it's not far from here."

"Well, I can't stay for long," said Moomin. "I have to leave for the South today."

They started to walk together, down the country road, over the bridge, through the grass. As they did so, Nestor smoothed at one of the little grey sheep on his cardigan and gave Moomin a look of polite incredulity. "South?"

"Yes," said Moomin, paws behind his back. "I'm going to see my boyfriend. He goes there in the winter while I hibernate, and now that I'm awake he's invited me over to his parents' house."

The winter creature raised his eyebrows and wrung his paws together.  
"Wait, I know who you're talking about! I've heard of an admirable fellow who leaves the valley every year to travel. I've never seen him... Ah, what's his name? Something beginning with N?"

"Snufkin," said Moomin, stepping over an upturned mile-stone.

"That's it!"

They reached the end of the grass where the hills started to pick up and the forest began to grow. In that forest, during the summer, there were the beautiful patchworks of green and yellow light on the moss where the sun shone through the leaves, and even when it rained you could smell that smell of wet earth, grass, bark.  
The soil would be crawl with daisies and weeds and wildflowers, the twisting roots of the old trees would be poke through the ground and be admired by all, and the springs were warm and welcoming.  
But now it was different. Now, all things that were beautiful were hidden by the snow, asleep, or halfway down the country.

And Nestor walked through it as if it were nothing, as if his paws wouldn't fall off with the cold.  
His whiskers trembled, and he tried to sneak as many glances at Moomin as possible whenever he thought he could get away with it.

"And you usually hibernate, then?" he said, feathering a finger across the whiskers on his paws.

"Yes."

"Oh. That's a shame, to sleep through something so beautiful."

"Beautiful?" Moomin gave him a look of _impolite_ incredulity.

Nestor nodded. "Why, yes. Don't you see it? Have you ever looked so closely at the snow that you see its thousands of tiny crystals? The Lady of the Cold? Have you ever caught a snowflake on your coat, and seen every tiny little shimmery detail before it melted away? They're like the stars you see in prayerbooks. No two flakes are the same." He sighed, smiling up at the bare trees. "Just like us. We're all so different, and that's what makes our lives so wonderful."

Moomintroll looked at him for a few seconds, before looking away, back at the muddy path in front of them.  
They continued on their way until the the of the holt, where the oaks were tallest- and one of which had a treehouse built into the middle. It was very high up, and Moomin felt very excited upon seeing it and the ladder.

"Wow!"

Nestor glowed. "Do you like it? I built it myself. Well, my brother helped. And my sister. But I put up the furniture and the curtains."

When they approached the end of the ladder, Nestor bowed his head and gestured at it to let Moomintroll go first. He held onto the rope and climbed it. It swung about at first, but the winter creature pushed it to the bark so that Moomin could reach the wooden platform without slipping.  
Nestor then climbed up himself quite easily. He didn't seem to have any claws, but the act came as naturally as anything.

He nodded at the door. "After you."

Moomin tried the handle. "It's locked!"

"Oh!" Nestor sank a paw into his cardy pocket and fished out a brass key, sticking it into the keyhole and twisting. There was a soft clunk and it pushed open. "There we are. Sorry, I can never relax with a free conscience if I don't secure the house."

They walked inside and closed the door behind them. The treehouse itself was small enough, perhaps the size of an average drawing room. There was nothing so odd about it at first glance: a table, a deck-chair, a bed, an armchair, a tiny kitchen unit. But if one took a closer look at the wall by the window, there were about forty different pairs of socks pinned to the wallpaper. They were sorted by size and colour, gradually increasing in scale and extravagance.

Nestor drew the deck-chair out from the table and patted it with his paw.  
"Sit down, sit down. What would you like? I've got cheese scones and some edamame leftovers from yesterday."

"Have you got any jam?" said Moomin, still staring at the sock-wall.

"Jam? Er... I've got marmalade," said Nestor timidly, tugging open the refrigerator.

"Oh, no thank you. Marmalade's no good, it tastes something awful."

"That's a pity, I quite like it. Not as much as I like dairy, though- I'm such a glutton... Moomin, I insist you try the scones."

The table was mahogany; a little worn around the edges, with an intricate motif carved into the legs. Over it lay a huge crocheted tablecloth that held a few blue placemats and several wax candles in the middle. Moomin watched Nestor bring over a china plate of scones, and place it next to the strawberry-pattern ceramic teapot.

"One moment, I'll fetch the butter," he chirped, sauntering over to the kitchen counter. "Would you like some tea?"

"If you're making a cup," said Moomin.

He dumped the butter-dish, a few teabags, sugarcubes and cups onto the table before dragging the checked armchair over and sitting in it. It was a little too low, and Nestor had to sit up very straight in order to see eye-to-eye with Moomin. He poured them both a cup and dropped a teabag in each.  
"Go ahead; try one. My mother made them."

Moomin took one of the wretched scones and buttered it impatiently. He felt a little bad for being so horrid to the other man earlier, but it was hard not to be grumpy when Nestor was so irritating. It didn't help that he was being stared at the whole time.

"So, how are you getting there? To the South, I mean?"

Moomin sniffed. "Do you know Too-ticky?"

"Ah, yes! I do. Lovely lass."

"She's coming with me. We're going to take a boat down the ocean, and then cut cross halfway to where the Mymble's house is built. It's an old renovated grain-mill."

"That sounds exciting."

"Yes..." Moomin hesitated. "Oh, it's awful. I suppose I should tell you. Snufkin's father has gone missing, and they can't find him anywhere. He's got amnesia or Alzheimer's or whatever it's called. It's part of the reason why I'm going in the first place, to go and look for him."

Nestor's eyebrows furrowed in concern. He slipped a whole scone into his mouth and said, "That's terrible! Haven't they let the police know?"

Moomin shook his head. "They live in the middle of nowhere, right in a big field surrounded by the woods! I think Snufkin has a price on his head, anyway. There's a warrant out for his arrest in Germany. That's why Too-ticky is coming with me; to guide me on the way over, and to help in the search. I..."

Moomin opened his mouth, and looked at the scone on his plate. He shut it again. He then looked up at Nestor. He opened his mouth once more.

"I don't suppose... I'm supposed to be looking for volunteers..."

Nestor widened his eyes to the very size of the butter-dish on the table and raised his paw to his mouth. "Are you recruiting me?"

"O-Only if it suits you," Moomin backpedalled, shaking his own paws. "I wouldn't want to drag you away from the valley on such short notice-"

"Yes! Yes, of course I'll go! I'll pack my things immediately!" Nestor pushed the armchair away from the table and hurried over to his bed. Underneath the frame was a big leather suitcase, which he tugged out and snapped open the brass clasps. "You should have asked sooner! O Gosh, how I've dreamed of sailing..."

Moomin watched and scolded himself bitterly in his head. Of all the people he could have chosen...

Nestor raised the rose-pattern quilt and pulled out his striped pyjamas from under the sheets, shoving them into the case. "I've got an excellent sense of hearing, you know. And taste, if that'd come in handy at any point. I come from a family of carpenters and wine connoisseurs. Oh, I'm so glad you asked!"

 

*

 

Later on, at their meeting point on the edge of the southern wood, Too-ticky watched the two of them approach with her paws in her pockets.

She squinted at Nestor and raised an eyebrow. "Who's this?"

"This is Nestor," said Moomintroll, wearily; gesturing at him. He gave her a polite nod of the head and mumbled, "How do you do?"

"He's coming with us," Moomin continued. "I've hired him."

Too-ticky shrugged and pulled her own knapsack over her shoulders. "We'd best be on our way, then. Come."

The journey through these particular parts of the forest was not very difficult or tiresome; it was simply long, and had a lot of uphill climbs. Moomin wasn't so cold as he usually was, for he was wearing one of Nestor's ugly jumpers and several pairs of his beloved socks after complaining about it a few hours before. Nestor had immediately dropped to his knees a few miles away from the treehouse and had opened his case, insisting vehemently that Moomin should take them.  
So now he walked, not so frigidly, looking rather ridiculous in this navy-red-yellow number.

"Would you like to play the Intelligence Game?" said Nestor, cheerfully; about half an hour into the walk.

"What's that?" asked Too-ticky. She was fiddling with a penknife and a loose thread in her trousers.

"It's a game where I ask difficult questions and you must tell me the right answer."

"That doesn't sound very fun," said Moomin, miserably. "Sounds to me like the boring sort of game grown-ups would play with each other."

"Yes, well, I _am_ grown-up," said Nestor snippily. "You'll answer first, Too-ticky. If you had three apples, and you took away two, how many apples would you have?"

Too-ticky frowned. "One apple."

"Wrong!" He skipped happily, suitcase banging against his knees. "You'd have two apples!"

"No, you wouldn't. Three minus two is one. I should know; I was raised by a horrible nun."

"No, it's two- because you'd have _taken away_ two, not one."

"What? That doesn't make any sense," said Moomin, pulling at the knit jumper.

"Yes it does. If I had a piece of paper I'd show you."

Moomin waved this away. "You've got it all backwards. If you took away two apples, you'd have one apple. If you took away one apple, _then_ you'd have two. That's mathematics. Ask Moominpappa."

Nestor swung his elbows around as he walked, tail swishing. "I haven't got it backwards and I don't know who this Moominpappa is. You have three apples, alright? Lay them on a table in your mind. Now, take two apples from the table. You then have two in your paws!"

"But what about the third apple? Isn't it still on this imaginary table? In that case, you'd have three-"

"Oh, be quiet, both of you!" exclaimed Too-ticky angrily, throwing her paws into the air. "Enough bloody apples!"

"Alright, alright, I'll move on to the next question!" Nestor straightened his collar with one paw and cleared his throat. "Moomintroll, some months have thirty days, and some have thirty one, correct?"

"Yeah?"

"So, tell me this: how many months have twenty-eight?"

"Twenty-eight days?"

"Yes."

Moomin rubbed at his chin and felt the cogs working in his head. This was another trick question, he was sure of it.  
Twenty-eight days... it was February, wasn't it? Or, no; didn't February have twenty-nine?  
Was this something to do with those dreadful leap years that the Hemulen had told him about?  
Golly, Snufkin would know this.

"Thirty days hath September, April, June and November," Moomin muttered under his breath, screwing his face up in concentration.

Nestor stared at him. "Well?"

"I'm thinking, you peabrain. February has twenty-eight alone- it's February, I thought so! Only one month has twenty-eight days."

"Wrong again!" Nestor shook his head incredulously. All three of them ducked under a low-hanging branch. "Every month has twenty-eight days in it, Moomin!"

It was at this point that Moomin started to become thoroughly annoyed. He glared at the winter creature and folded his arms crossly. "I won't have this carry-on, Nestor. You're only pulling my leg and making me rather angry."

He laughed and waved his paw near his whiskers. "Hahaha! You certainly look it! Don't be so cross, it's only a game."

"It's a silly game and it's bad for my blood-pressure."

"How about we play something else?" said Too-ticky loudly, before Nestor could answer. "It's called the Quiet Game. All three of us have to stay as quiet as possible and see how long we can do it. Starting now: three, two, one."

 

*

 

By the time they reached the harbour, the sun was close to setting and all three of them were rather hungry.  
And so, after Nestor insisting that he would pay for it, they stepped into a very small seafood restaurant by the beach, some distance away from the boats in the water. The outside was painted blue, with a big crab next to the name (Martin's) waving its claws invitingly in thick red paint.  
The inside was cramped, quiet, and restless. The walls were painted navy, and several prized fishing-rods were pinned above the fireplace and a few black-and-white pictures. A couple of other waterlogged people were seated at the tables, each on red velour sofa-chairs and tables made of metal and glass. Pasted underneath each glass was a map of the country, and a few drawings of seamonsters and lifebuoys to add to the sailor's aesthetic. Too-ticky was very fond of this.  
The three of them sat at the table next to the window where they could see the concrete and the sea on the horizon.

"Nice place," said Nestor, sitting primly on the sofa-chair and tracing the metal buttons with his finger. "Homely."

Moomin picked up the menu and dropped his knapsack under his feet. "I'm surprised it's still open. I'm sure they don't get many customers in the winter."

"Oh no, places like this stay open for months as it gets warmer down the country," said Too-ticky, tracing a line down the map. Her finger stopped at the little red dot, indicating where they were now. She picked up the other menu and shook it open.

"I hope it's not all fish," Nestor mumbled, opening his suitcase again to pull out an old leather coin-purse. "Oh dear, this is'll be the first time I've spent some of my monthly admittance in a restaurant."

The waiter approached them a few minutes later. She was very pretty, with brown eyes and long red hair tied up in two plaits behind her head. She smiled at them and brandished a notebook.  
" 'Ello! Are you ready to order?"

"You sound like a pirate," said Nestor, bluntly. The waitress giggled.  
"I'm not a pirate; I'm a sailor."

Too-ticky raised her eyebrows.

"Do you think you could just give me a big bowl of peas? I know it isn't strictly on the menu, but I'm very fond of them," said Moomin, frowning at the table. He was feeling rather homesick and wished Moominmamma was with him. She would have loved the rustic interior design.

The waitress wrote it down in her notebook. "One big bowl of peas, of course. And you?" She pointed her pencil at Too-ticky, who swallowed and stared at the menu.

"Er... I'll have the pickled mackerel."

"Oh, that's my favourite!" the waitress sighed happily, writing it down. "And you, poshnob?"

Nestor looked affronted. He straightened his collar and blinked at her, pointedly. "The chou-fleur rôti, please. And I'll have your finest wine with that."

"Oh my, a party. A French party, that is. Coming right up, lovies!"  
She plucked the menus from their paws and sauntered off into the kitchen.

"I say, did you hear what she called me?" Nestor hissed, crouching over the table. "Poshnob! Deliberate insolence, that's what I think!"

"It was only a joke, Nestor," said Too-ticky, tapping her fingers against the glass. "You started it, you called her a pirate."

"Yeah, you did," Moomin agreed. "At least she thought it was funny. If she's a sailor, then maybe we can ask her if she knows anybody with a spare boat."

Too-ticky nodded. "Good idea, let's do that."

And so they played a half-hearted game of eye-spy until their food was ready, pointing out sugar bowls and photographs and cobwebs under the guise of alphabet letters. Moomin was about to tell them the word they were looking for was 'chandelier', until another dark-haired waitress arrived and laid their plates in front of them. Nestor was given his wine; and Moomin was given his bowl of peas, with which he felt very happy indeed.

"Thank you," said Nestor curtly to the waitress, inspecting his plate of roasted cauliflower. "Looks splendid."

"So do you, sunshine," she said, giving him a wink as she walked off. He went pink around the nose and gave his food a sour look.  
"Sea-folk haven't any manners," he muttered, shoving a whole piece of cauliflower into his mouth.

 

 

When they were finished, fed and watered, the three of them walked up to the counter with their money and gave the lady a pile of coins, hoping it would be enough. The lady peered down her glasses at the pennies and waved them away, mumbling something about being too tired to count.

"Hang on, do you think I could speak to the red-haired waitress?" said Moomin politely, placing his paw on the counter. The lady gave him a stern look.

"My daughter? Why?"

"She said she was a sailor," he said, innocently. "We're in need of a boat. Do you think she could lend us one?"

"A boat? What for?"

"Sailing."

"Hmm. Bangle!" The lady called as loud as she could across the restaurant. A few of the guests jumped violently and one even spilled her glass of water all over her stockings.

The waitress- Bangle- poked her head out of the kitchen and raised her eyebrows in a question mark. There was a smudge of ash on her nose from the oven.

"Come here! There's a lad who wants a boat!"

Bangle strolled over across the tinted floorboards and gave the trio a smile. "A boat, you say? To buy?"

"No," said Nestor, quickly.

"No, just to borrow for a few days," said Too-ticky, paws behind her back.

"I see. Why'd you want to sail in such cold weather? Where are you off to?"

Moomin tugged at his knapsack. "We're off South! It'll only take about six days, and we'll give it back when we're finished..."

"Ohh, the South? I've always wanted to go there. Lots of jewelry shops," Bangle sighed, resting her paws on her hips. She rubbed her snout and glanced at her mother. "I quit, Mama."

"You what?"

"I want to go South."

Her mother wrinkled her nose. "Be back within a few weeks, madam; I won't have you quitting. Go on then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a gang has been formed


	11. Sounds, Downstairs

 

This house knew no sound.  
There was no groan of the floorboard, no hushed consolation, no sob of a girl under the red spell of fever. No, it was still.  
Something sat on the dusty concrete of the threshold. It crouched, low over, bending itself into knot- smelling the grass and the dock and invoking some kind of memory.  
There was blood somewhere. It pushed round and round in open air, searching, rushing. It brought something to life- some solid thing, one that moved to the greenery and pushed it aside so that the blades rustled. Sound! Something other than the static of blood, pumping through something one couldn't know.  
It curled around the grass and pulled. They snapped deliciously, and there was that feeling again.

It knew sound. It must have made it itself.

The thing crept over the greeting-stone, newfound movement, and used the grass still clasped to guide its unseen paws. It pushed open the door- and, oh! The clunk of unlocked brass and wood made it tremble in excitement. This was excellent, this was new. It was all so inviting.

And on the cool, flat rocks of this unfamiliar sort of level ground-

_Tiles!_

_Darling, won't you scrub the tiles?_

-the thing left prints. Where its paws were pressed to the surface, a peculiar sort of fog gathered round and left an outline. Steam? From blood, it must be.  
It inspected them carefully. Two were long and stern-looking; the rest being round, with ten fingers splayed out like fly's wings. But the fog faded away, and there was nothing once again.

It blinked, and quite happily forgot what it was doing.

"Hello," it said, in the gap between these solid tiles and the space where there was nothing at all. It spoke, but no sound was made- only an odd ringing, that did not echo through the house like the door's lock had. "Can't I be heard? Here I am. What lovely furnishing."

It then decided to crawl over to a shimmery glass cabinet, where the little metal hooks were bolted over and inside lay a menagerie of beautiful shiny objects. Badges, glazed china, crystal cut glasses, medals. They sparkled like stars and comets and the eyes of women in the moonlight.  
The creature glowed, and deciding with this astounding new concept of thought, it reached out its imaginary paws and slid the lock open. That grinding noise of silver sliding against brass, the ache of an old hinge, and sound of porcelain on its fingers- it was enough to make it cry from eyes that it did not have.  
It pulled out something heavy, and important. Another creature, something small and smooth and hairy-

A crinoline lady!

_Look, darling, she's got real blonde hair pasted to her head- A lovely gift from my aunt, after she decided to clear the house. Good for her, we shall keep her in here for now._

"Oh, you must be spread to pieces," said the creature to the tiny lady. "I must break you. The sound you make will bring me back to the real world."

She rose, up, up past the cabinet, far above his head- and was dropped. The sound of her every little fragment shrieking in pain as they scattered across the floor was perfect!

The creature mumbled something, delighted. And with that, the smash was followed by the house coming to life once again. The ceiling shook, and the chandelier swayed gently, and there came soft-footed steps from the stairs by the telephone.

"Hello?" somebody called- something low, sweet, reproachful. "Who's there? Whoever it is, this silly ghosty game has gone on long enough. You're scaring the rest of the children."


	12. Sponge-cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sososo sorry for late update omg, im tired all the time nowadays, my limbs always feel like they dont work anymore and all i can do is just look at my ceiling and daydream

"Dratted thing!"  
The boat had stopped moving. Bangle kicked at the engine with her heel. She was sitting on top of it, crouching over so that she could see anything past her snout.

"I wouldn't hit it if I were trying to make it work," said Moomintroll, sitting a good distance away in the middle of the boat. "You'll hurt its feelings."

"Engines don't bloody well have feelings," she hissed back, her aproned bosom pressed against her legs. "She's new, too; only brought her out first last summer."

Moomin, Too-ticky, Bangle and Nestor were all sitting together with their knees touching in the same little red boat. Where Bangle sat on top of the busted engine, the rest of them sat opposite on the centre thwart- old planks of wood suspended over the deck, like a bench. Underneath them lay their things, bags, a great thin pole with what looked like the keys of a metal flute down the middle, and the big glossy fruitcake wrapped in tin-foil that the restaurant's owner had given them.

Bangle's father, Martin, was a very thin and seedy looking hemulen with a blue net over his hair and cataracts in his eyes. He had rushed out of the building as they were leaving, and had shoved the cake into his daughter's arms.

"Take this!" he had said, breathlessly. "Oh, sweetpea, you take good care of yourself while you're away! And do try not to get yourself jailed again; there are so many policemen down the country."

And now, they were floating in the water a few miles away from the shore, with nothing and nobody but a lonely seal asleep on a surfacing rock to hear their groans of exasperation. Well, Moomintroll didn't feel so bad. The smell of brine and seaweed and the cold gusty air in his winter fur made him feel positively elated.

"Will we have to row?" said Nestor, looking up past the newspaper in his paws. His knee was knocking against Moomin's, and he wanted so desperately to pull away. Moomin would have elbowed the man hard in the ribs if he had elbows to speak of and if he wasn't sitting so close to Too-ticky.

Bangle shook her head. "Give her a minute. I'll row when I'm cold and dead."

"Oh, don't say such things like that while we're out on the ocean," said Nestor faintly.

"I'll say whatever the hell I like on my own boat," she retorted. "One other word out of you, Drip, and I'll make you walk the plank."  
Bangle leaned over and picked the ridiculously long metal pole up from the deck, using both hands to lift it into the air and slowly dip it in the water. The others watched her, completely confused. The keys were quite high up; somewhere below the barrel and hole, where she angled the pole in such a way that it was tilted at forty-five-degrees. They saw her bend over and blow into the the lip plate, sounding something like both eerily low and high at the same time. It sounded like if ten flutes were playing the same note at different octaves.

Nothing happened, until the boat started to rock violently and Bangle lifted the contraption out of the water. Something seemed to split the very ocean open as if it were earth, and a large green head pulled itself out of the depths to stare at the waitress with big, yellow eyes.

"Hello, honeysop," said Bangle nonchalantly, as if coming face to face with a seamonster was an everyday occurance. She crossed her arms at the mermaid and raised an eyebrow. "How are you?"

The mermaid clamped a slimy hand over the side of the boat. It was pink, bloated- as if it had been soaked in saltwater for years (which, now that I think of it, it most likely had).  
"You haven't called in three weeks and you call yourself my wife. Shame on you, Balbina."

"Apologies, my little shortcake, I've been busy with the old waitressing," said Bangle, eyes popping. "May I ask you a favour?"

The mermaid glared.  
"You rancorous old swine. First, you have the audacity to completely ignore me while I freeze to death in these wretched oceans just to stay close to you, and now you ask for a _favour?_ I do you the favour of being your beautiful wife, you know. I don't know what it is I see in you."

"Yes, yes, and I'm so very sorry!" Bangle placated, crossing her fingers behind her back. "You know you mean the world to me, my angel. Let me propose a deal. Oili-" Bangle picked up the fruitcake and tore the tin-foil off. "Say I give you this fruitcake- one that I baked just for you, my love- and you help me and my friends sail down to the South?"

Oili blinked. "What's wrong with the engine?"

"Busted," said Bangle, shrugging. "And oh, I know how strong you can be." She offered the fruitcake, innocently. The mermaid hesitated- blinking at the cake, and then at the others. Nestor was squeezed up against Moomin, trembling and wide-eyed. Too-ticky, on the other hand, looked as if she had walked in on her own surprise birthday party. She grinned at the two wives, her eyes flitting between one and the other every two seconds.

Oili reached out and picked up the cake. It fit like a wine gum in the palm of her dripping hand. "Alright. Why are you going South?"

"Dropping these fellows off near Fine's Harbour," said Bangle, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. "But I wanted a holiday from work to explore. I've only ever been to the Riviera."

"I'm aware, Balbina," said Oili plaintively, sticking the cake in her mouth. "I don't think I need to remind that I was the one who hid you from their police."

Bangle went red, clashing horribly with her curly hair.  
"So will you help us?"

"Fine. But I want a great big diamond ring from you after all of this is done."

Oili slid under the waves once again, green hair fading to blue. The little red boat rocked again, and Nestor clutched Moomin's arm- which he promptly tugged away, properly irritated. Bangle pulled the ties from her plaits and let her wild hair spring free, curls fluttering in the breeze. She looked like a real pirate, with a necklace of jade and the gold bracelets up and down her arms. Moomin thought of jewelry, and how nice it must be to wear some. He thought of the Snorkmaiden and her beautiful gold anklet. Sometimes, when the months were colder, Snorkmaiden's fur would become blonde and terribly fluffy and the anklet would be completely swamped. At times you couldn't even see it, unless she brushed the hair back and showed it to you.  
Moomin felt a little sad then. He missed her. Not in the burning, intense way that he missed Snufkin, but there was still that sorrowful twinge of remorse and guilt that followed him after their breakup.

How can friends stay so friendly after such a thing? Of performing; for years, it seemed.  
Snorkmaiden had probably wanted to marry him.

"Hey," said Too-ticky gently, patting Moomin's arm. He started and blinked at her. "You've got a frown on your face. What's up?"

Moomin sighed and slouched back into the plank. "Nothing. I'm just a little tired, is all."

Oili resurfaced in front of the boat and was handed the anchor by Bangle. She wrapped it around her wrist; and gave them all a strange look, before glancing at the sea in front of her and diving back in.  
The boat was thrust forward with the force of a thousand rusty engines and all four of them were knocked backwards into the burden boards. Both Too-ticky and Nestor hit their heads against the sternsheets and they both curled up into balls, clutching the back of their skulls with their eyes screwed shut.

If Moomin stuck his snout over the side of the boat he was able to see Oili's great green tail and the pale plains of her back under the water. She pulled the boat like it was a play-thing on a piece of cord.  
And they stayed put like this for a few hours, streaming down the country, playing poker and flicking rolled up bits of paper at each other miserably. The spitting wind had started to howl in their very direction, and Moomin pulled his arms out of the sleeves in his jumper so that he could hug himself against the cold.  
The red sun had long since set; and now that it was completely pitch-black, without even a moon, everybody seemed to give up on pretending to be jolly and lay down in the boards. They pulled blankets and pieces of tarpaulin over themselves and stared up at the starless sky, all the while they moved.

Bangle stood up from the broken engine and stuck the long instrument into the water. Instead of playing it, she merely poked the mermaid's shoulder blade and shouted into the waves:  
"Oili, my love! Come up!"

The boat slowed, and Oili stuck her head out above the surface. "What?"

"Why don't you take a rest?" said Bangle, tugging gently against the anchor. "The landlubbers have gone to sleep. You may as well curl up on the seabed, too."

"Alright," said Oili. She unravelled the anchor and dropped it into the boat. Moomin jumped at the noise, and was drawn out of the half-sleep that he had been in. He stirred under the blankets and heard Oili sigh.  
"I will. I've had time to think, and I'd like to apologise for being so rude to you earlier on in the day. But you must understand, I was upset and angry that you had left me alone for so long. I was beginning to think something had happened."

"We've been married eleven years," said Bangle, quietly. "What makes you think I'd leave you so out of the blue?"

"I didn't think you had left, I simply thought you had died."

"Don't be facetious."

"Don't be a stupid, conniving little hemulen and I'll think about it."

" _You_ don't be a big mule-brained mermaid!"

Oili laughed- a deep, sombre sort of thing. Moomin felt the boat sway just a little bit as she moved. "Goodnight, Balbina."

"Goodnight, Oili."

Bangle's footsteps creaked across the burden boards and she lay down on the other side of the planks.  
"I thought your name was Bangle," Moomin whispered. "Why does she keep calling you Balbina?"

There was a loud rustling noise. Bangle was scratching her scalp through the mass of red hair. "Oh, sorry. I thought you were asleep. Bangle's just my sea-name; I'm really called Balbina, after my grandmother."

"I'm named after my father. Well, it's a double-barrel name: Moomintroll."

"Moomintroll. Sounds a treat! I like it."

Moomin hesitated. "How did you and Oili meet, may I ask?"

Bangle sighed. "Oh, It was maybe... fifteen years ago, yes. Picture this- me, a fiery young hemulen, rowing as fast as I possibly could away from the shore of the Riviera. My boat sparkled with a thousand pieces of priceless jewelry. I was sixteen years old and had just committed my first mass robbery.  
There came a shout from the beach, and like _that_ they appeared- hundreds and hundreds of policemen, all waving their batons in the air and blowing on their whistles- like an ungodly chorus, singing the song of death and imprisonment!"  
Bangle waved her paws in the air from where she lay, punctuating each syllable.  
Moomintroll privately thought she may have been embellishing the story, but kept this unsaid as she seemed to be enjoying herself.

"They were on to me. I hadn't a chance. They began to push out their own police cruiser; and panicking, I rowed until my arms felt as if they would fall off. I prayed, prayed until I thought my heart would break for something or somebody to save me as the boat full of policemen drew ever nearer- until a great hand rose from the ocean and clasped itself around my lady. She was sunk; pulled into the depths of the waves by this huge mysterious hand, and I felt fear as I've never known it. The policemen thought I had been drowned and eaten, and they were scared of whatever had just pulled me under so they scrammed the scene. I was very nearly drowning, mind you- when Oili finally let me go, I swam to the surface and I vomited water that had grown hot in my belly. I was like a colander: the water spilt from every hole in my body and I felt as if I had been set on fire rather than soaked in seawater.  
Oili helped me. She pulled me to a secluded island off of the coast, and she dried my clothes and my loot in the sun. That night, I sat on the beach and I looked into her eyes- this girl, this mermaid who had saved me from incarceration- and Moomin, I fell deeply in love. Horrifically in love. She was my world."  
Bangle sighed again. "Oili liked my stolen jewelry. It's what she eats, you know."

"She what?"

Bangle nodded. "Yes, treasure is Oili's favourite food. Loves the stuff. The shinier, the better. I was so in love I would have given her the sun and the moon, and I suppose I still would- but I let her eat my gold and she let me court her, supposedly. I said to her:  
'Oili, my saviour, angel among the seaweeds, you've spared me a life behind bars and countless plates of prison muck. In return, I shall give you a life of luxury in the pink- no, the gold!'"  
She paused. "For years, I pirated for her feasts of loot and jewels; and Oili ate every last ring. I wasn't sure if she could ever love me as I loved her- but it turns out after our meeting four years later, she told me she could no longer keep it a secret and that she wanted to marry me."

"Would you say it was a mutual secret that the two of you kept?"

"That we were smitten with each other? Spot on, my lad."

Moomintroll sifted around under the blankets. "I can wholly understand. Don't you know exactly why we're heading southwards?"

"No," said Bangle. "I didn't want to pry."

"Well... I'm off to see my loved one."

"Ah. All three of you?"

"Oh, them? They've come with me to help find his father."

"His?" said Bangle, a smile in her voice.

Moomin felt embarrassed, which was ridiculous. "Yes, it's a boy. His name's Snufkin."

"Snufkin?!"  
Moomin jumped at the sudden surprised raise in Bangle's voice and shushed her desperately. "Be quiet! The others are sleeping!"

"I know the bastard! Green- green dress? Witch's hat?"

"That's him!"

"Sure, didn't he only come to Martin's this time last year! My word, if that isn't a coincidence!"

"By my tail!" said Moomin, wondrously.

"Yes! He came around early December. Hadn't a penny on him, mind you- but his music..." Bangle put her thumb and index finger together and kissed them. "My God, that was a good night. The fellow can play practically any instrument. Went at the mandolin, the violin, the bouzouki... even tried the pipes. But I suppose you know all this already?"

"I don't know what he does during the winter," said Moomin. "I usually hibernate. But yes, he is talented."

"Talented! You're a lucky guy, Moomintroll. I'm raging now that Papa isn't here; he _loved_ Snufkin. I must go with you to see him again!"

"Oh, do." Moomin rolled over once again, and drew the covers over his snout. "Well, goodnight, Bangle. Talk to you in the morning."

"Goodnight. Remember not to whistle."

 

*

 

Only four days later did they reach Fine's Harbour. Oili pushed the boat up on the slippery rocks, and each one of them hopped out to climb up the concrete "steps" (which were very broken and sporadically placed, as if the builder had been very blind and riddled with Parkinson's). Weeds sprouted out through the cracks in the cement, and the air was considerably warmer than it had been up North.

Oili hauled her massive body up onto the pier, and fell back- letting out a rumbling groan after swimming for hours. She closed her eyes and fanned her green hair out on top of the lobster crates and fishing nets.  
Bangle walked over to her great head and gave it a kiss. "Thank you, dear. Won't you stay in these waters for a while? I'll be back in, say, a week. With lots of gold, I promise."

Oili glared at her as the others approached timidly.  
"What am I supposed to do for a week, drink seawater?"

Nestor scratched his chin. "What is it that you do drink?"

"Seawater!" cried Oili, throwing her hands up into the air. Everybody was promptly given a cold shower.  
"You know, I might just disappear for several weeks instead! I'm always expected to wait around in the bay for you, Balbina, while you have fun and I wallow in my own stupidity at marrying a tiny two-legged creature the size of my _thumb!"_

Bangle seemingly lost her temper and turned away from her wife. "Oh, go find yourself a sea-witch, sour old bint!"

"As if I'd turn human for somebody with sponge-cake for brains," Oili muttered, rolling off of the pier and sinking back into the water. "Goodbye, you lot. Make sure Bangle doesn't choke on her own amour propre."

"What was that?" Bangle shouted, turning on her heel and raising a fist.

"Go and lick some stamps, you cloth-eared malt-worm! Consider yourself on a fine line!"

"Oh, _I'm_ on a fine line? Is that what you think?"

Too-ticky took hold of both Nestor and Moomin's shoulders and started to steer them towards the harbour village, which was partly built upon a hill and a rocky outcrop. The beach was on the other side, and you could see the wood that surrounded the Mymble's house by the mountains in the far distance. Moomin saw them, and despite the loud arguing by the pier, he felt his chest fill brightly with a sense of excitement and longing. Snufkin was there, perhaps only a day's walk away.

"Let's leave the lover's quarrel for a moment," said Too-ticky darkly, still pushing them forward. "It's nearly evening now. We musn't forget that we need to be on the lookout."

"Yes," said Moomintroll, pulling at the straps on his knapsack. His stomach grumbled almost painfully, and he was sure that the others heard it too. "I say. I'm quite hungry, aren't you?"

"I am," Nestor agreed, sparing furtive glances at the both of them. "But I haven't any money left."

"O Gosh, how does one eat without any money? I wish I were like Snufkin, if only I could play music well enough... or if I had the guts to steal something..."

"We're not stealing anything," said Too-ticky, a steely quality to her voice. They passed through a beckoning street with rows and rows of closed newsagents and bars. "Don't forget; this is the Joxter's scene, and these are his neighbours. If we engage in any sort of thievery it is practically the same as if he had stolen himself, as we are his associates."

One pub, at the end of the strip, had lights on in the inside- and a gaslamp highlighting the name:  
_'Morrissey's'._

"Let's go in here," she said, tugging them towards the door. "We'll start searching at the very beginning."  
As they approached, Moomin saw that were was an intricately welded brass doorknob in the middle of the door. There was also a tiny circular window, of stained red-and-blue glass- and, two words, haphazardly carved above it: _'THE WRECKERS'._  
There were possibly hundreds of little dusty seashells pasted around the doorframe; and on the inside, too, when they pulled it open. That warm, homely smell of cooking and tobacco hit their noses in an instant.  
The first thing Moomin noticed about the pub's interior was that it was almost completely empty, and very strangely decorated. It was sparse; completely empty in some parts, yet a shelf full of trinkets was nailed over a library cabinet in the other. Flowery Russian dolls, jade lamps, carved ivory bracelets and little stuffed alligators (with tiny yellow teeth, and rubies for eyes!) watched them enter from across the room.

At the bar itself stood a lonely old man, sporting an ornate pipe in his mouth and a a dirty apron tied loosely around his waist. His sour expression seemed to evaporate on the spot as soon as the little bell rung above the door to announce their arrival.

"Hello!" he called, giving them a wave. "Patrons, at last!"

Somebody popped their head up from under the wood and raised an empty glass and rag. They had a long, grey snout; and wore a navy pinny, embroidered with yellow flowers. "Patrons! Hello, at last!"

"Right," said Moomin nervously, walking right up to the bar and slapping his paw down onto the surface. "I suppose I should get this over with. My good sirs, have either of you seen a man with great yellow eyes and a sort of pointy red hat appear in your establishment as of late?"

The man blinked and took his pipe from his mouth. "Do you mean the Joxter?"

"Yes!" said the three of them, simultaneously.

"Ah!" The other bartender gasped, and clasped their paws together. "No, unfortunately not. He only comes to visit in the summer, on the weekends. Great guy. A little air-headed, I must say."

"Oh," Moomin sighed, sitting down on one of the plush seats. He took hold of his tail and ran his fingers through the tuft, sadly. "Well, we might as well stay for a meal. I'm so used to four a day."

"However will we pay for it?" Nestor hissed, sitting beside him. "I've told you, I have no money. I don't much care for the Irish; they've all been a little funny in the head since that famine-"

"Bartenders," said Too-ticky loudly, sitting at the other seat and leaning her elbows on the table. "What are your names?"

"Iarla," mumbled the man in the dirty apron.

"Luisne," said the other.

"A pleasure to meet you," said Too-ticky cheerfully. She stuck out her paw and shook it with the both of them.

At that moment, the doorbell rung again, and in came Bangle with her hair wild and her eyes bright. She marched up to the bar and slapped a paper note on the wood, between Nestor and Too-ticky. "Rum," she barked. "Stat."

Iarla took the note a little fearfully, and regarded her as he stuck it into the register. Luisne bent over and smoothed their ears while busying themselves with the glasses.  
She plonked herself down at the seat to Moomin's right, and dug all of the change into her dress pocket, all the while scowling.

"What happened?" Moomin whispered to her. She shrugged, a little too angrily to seem indifferent.

"I'm pissed."

"Language. Yes, I can see that."

"I am a sailor and I'll curse if I want to," said Bangle, raising the generous glass of amber liquid to her mouth and downing it all as if it were nothing. "The wife! You heard her!"

"I heard _you_ , as well," said Moomin quietly. "You weren't so verbally pacifistic, if I do recall."

"Recall all you fuckin' want, see if I care. Pah! Women!"

The bartenders hovered; watching Moomin, Nestor and Too-ticky expectantly. Moomin drew his paw out and raised his eyebrows at Bangle. "Give me the change and I'll buy you another drink."

"So kind," she grumbled, pulling out the coins again. She dropped them into his palm.

"Rum," he said, imitating Bangle's confident intonation. "Another, please. What would you guys like?"

"A sparkling water," said Nestor, prissily.

"Tea," said Too-ticky.

"Me too. Let that be two teas."

"Teas?" chirped Luisne, sticking their head above the bar.

"Yes, two teas for Too-ticky and I."

"Tea Toos for Tea-ticky and you," Luisne nodded their head and turned around to grab a couple of flowery mugs from the shelf.

"Don't tease me!"

"You don't want tea?" said Luisne confusedly, sticking their snout over their shoulder.

"No, I said don't tease me for ordering two teas on me and Too-ticky!"

"For God's sake," said Bangle, thumping her head into her palms.

 

*

 

Later on, when it was the evening, Milken set down the tube of glue by the hearth and quickly pressed the last splinter of wood into place. She pulled her paw out of the old guitar's sound hole and carefully laid it down on the rug.  
"There," she said, quietly. "That should do it. We can sand it off later if the glue is very lumpy, but it looks alright to me."

Snufkin sat with both his legs at either sides of his body, and watched the red reflection of the fire flicker in the guitar's glaze. "Thank you so much, Milken. I owe you one."

"Nonsense," she said, picking up the glue and sticking it in her pocket. "I wouldn't have been able to sleep another night in this house knowing this instrument to be so broken! We'll restring it tomorrow when it's dry."

They left the living room and made their ways upstairs for the night. Milken shut herself inside the bathroom to wash, but not before wishing Snufkin a friendly goodnight. He then climbed up to third floor, where the landing was small, and sat himself down at the tiny square window in which he could stare out into the field and watch for any visitors.  
Four days. It had only been four days so far... so why did it seem that they were dragging on for so long? The rules of nature had it so that the days of winter were far shorter, and the days of summer were longer- yet somehow it seemed so opposite. Snufkin supposed it had something to do with enjoying yourself.

'Time flies when you're having fun!' said the irritatingly cheerful voice in his head.  
He promptly told it to shut up; and scanned the fields once more before curling up and closing his eyes.

Sleep caught up him quickly. And in his dreams, Snufkin saw colour and lights; heard the soft voice of Moomintroll. He could hear music, the sounds of many different people enjoying themselves- and, as clear as if it were really playing downstairs in the living room, the quiet song of an old broken guitar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If u couldnt already tell by this fic, i am a trad musician
> 
> ALSO HEY I HAVE A NEW TUMBLR  
> >> @icehead98 <<  
> Old one got flagged as blurry for some freakin reason ! Go follow if u wanna see my stupid gay art


	13. Blue

"What would you think of my becoming a clown?"

"A clown?"

"Yes," said the little mumrik, pinching her red nose. "A clown. A merry-andrew. A jester."

Snufkin gave her an amused look from where his head lay resting on the window frame. She stared back at him, expectantly; the claws of her left paw digging into his lap.  
"Why would you do that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. Shouldn't one have a job?"

Snufkin shook his head. "I wouldn't recommend jobs. They suck the joy out of everything."

"Hmm..." The mumrik pondered for a while, absentmindedly kneading his leg. The two of them were sitting upstairs on the third floor, by the window. Snufkin had been miserably looking out for visitors (while Mymblemamma was out) when the little one climbed into his lap and struck up easy conversation. Her hair was the same sort of red that his was; and her eyes were crossed and lazy.  
But she purred- like a little cat, too distracted to notice. Then again, maybe she merely didn't care.  
"I suppose you have a point. But I must be something."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh..." The little one sighed, and leaned back slightly so that she lay with her back to her brother's chest. "You wouldn't understand. You're a joxter."

"I am not," said Snufkin, indignantly.

"Yes you are, you've got claws. And there's fur on your nose."

He suddenly rubbed at it, self-consciously. "Of course I do, I'm a man. It's like having a beard. But you have claws, too! You're sticking them into my leg!"

"Joxters are lazy and immature," the mumrik continued stubbornly, folding her skinny arms. "Mymbles are self-important. Yet it seems that they are somehow prized and preferred over the kind and careful Mumriks. Because of that, I must be more than my fur; and so I have decided to become a clown."

Something in her words struck a strange chord inside of Snufkin. He blinked at the knobbly wall, illuminated by the 4 o' clock sun, and then frowned.  
"Come, now. I don't know what wild assumptions you're making about me and our poor Papa if you're calling us lazy," he said, gently. "But you must know that what you're saying is very silly. Of course you don't have to be "more than your fur". I know for a fact that being a mumrik has never held me back before."

She shrugged again. "Says the homeless man."

"Well, I think you're being rather negative for a seven-year-old."

"I'm eight, actually," the mumrik grumbled. "I still think you're a joxter."

"Why?"

"Because you haven't moved from this spot all day."

Snufkin rolled his eyes and sifted her off of his lap. She clambered onto the windowsill and watched him stand up, stretch, and scratch the back of his neck.  
"Look at all that fur," he heard her say, spitefully. "It's like a big red thicket in there!"

"So much for kind and careful mumriks."

"You're a hypocrite."

"You don't even know what that word means," he said, picking up the hooked pole by the stairs and lifting it up to open the attic.  
Snufkin then pulled down the folding stairs and climbed up the steps.  
He didn't hear a thing from the little mumrik downstairs as he crept across the musty floorboards; dust collecting like grey-purple fuzz around the auburn fur of his bare feet. Snufkin frowned down at them disdainfully and thought he was rather looking forward to shedding it in the spring-time.  
He pulled his old knapsack from the sofa-bed and snapped it open. Rummaging around in it carelessly for a few moments, he pushed aside the deck of cards tied with a rubber elastic and revealed a patch of silvery, moth-eaten velour.

Snufkin pulled it out and shoved it in his pocket before climbing back down the stairs.

The little one was still sitting on the windowsill and she gave him a suspicious look as he landed on the floor. She swung her fuzzy legs over the painted wood, and with every swing the untied laces of her boots clicked against the wall.  
Snufkin raised an eyebrow. "Are you angry?"

"Only at the world," she said, tipping her head back against the dirty window.

He drew his paw out of his pocket, and with it came a soft threadbare glove-puppet with a yellow nose and friendly brown eyes. She even had a little blue hat that Snufkin had knitted himself- although it was supposed to be at a jaunty angle on one of her ears, but he was never any good at sewing. The puppet hid her snout in her paws, and the little one widened her eyes excitedly.  
"Oh," said Snufkin, sadly. "It looks as though we've a little creep in a spot of bother. What's wrong with you?"

The glove-puppet drew her paws away from her eyes and bent her head in dismay. "I'm feeling sad," she said, in a very high-pitched rendition of Snufkin's voice, "because your poor sisko is so terribly cross at the world when it is such a wonderful place!"

Snufkin shook his head. "Oh dear, I suppose you're right."

"I'm not so angry," said the little mumrik, quickly; her back as straight as Mymblemamma's cigarette holder. "It's only because one of our sisters was being horrid to me. Because she's a mymble, and she's allowed to wear red frocks when I'm only allowed to wear blue."

"But blue is a wonderful colour," said the puppet. "It's the colour of the sky and the sea, and the pond behind our house. The forget-me-nots in the grass, the tiny flowers painted into the neck of Milken's violin and the very hat on my head! Don't you know? There's that wonderful hue in our national flag; and of not one, but two planets in our wide open solar system."

"Uranus and Neptune!"

"How smart you are!" said Snufkin, a smile on his face. "You know what I think would make our friend very happy?"  
He wiggled the puppet for good measure. The mumrik leaned in slightly, so that she could hear what he had to say. "What is it?"

"Won't you write down for me the most fabulous blue things in our house?" said the puppet, shyly. "Explore every nook and cranny and secret hiding-place for objects that you possibly can, and jot down the names of every single one. And show them to me at the end of the day!"

The little one nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yes, I shall do that. Challenge dutifully accepted."

"Oh, thank you! When you are done, Snufkin will help you bake to beat the band in the kitchen. We'll make blueberry scones to celebrate, and there'll be enough to feed the whole family."

"Blueberry scones are Papa's favourite!" said the mumrik excitedly, standing up on the windowsill. "I do hope we can save some for him until he comes back from his holiday in Berlin. Oh-"  
She paused and laid eyes on something out of the window. Her shoulders heaved and she squinted, paws raising themselves to the glass. "There are people in the field, Snufkin, come and look!"

Snufkin pulled the glove-puppet inside-out and hurried over to the window. His heart was suddenly thumping wildly and he felt as if his blood had been replaced with surface cleaner. That skittering sensation started to spread throughout his body, causing his paws to shake and his eyes to jump about as they scanned the frosty canola. And, lo and behold, they caught sight of two tiny little figures in the distance- one of them being hard to miss as round and white.  
"Well, strike me pink and call me yellow," Snufkin mumbled, fumbling to wipe the fog of his breath from the glass. "Excuse me." He left the windowsill and started to hurry down the stairs. He ran his paw down the walls and the banisters, struggling so very hard not to let the stupid, beaming smile blossom all over his face- for this elated feeling had replaced some of the bleach in his heart and Snufkin felt like he could dance and sing with joy.  
He was here! He was _here!_

The children barely had time to look up from their scribbling on the walls as their older brother flew past on the wooden banister. Mymblemamma was somewhere in the forest, and she was not there to scold him as he used it to slide all the way down to the very ground floor.  
Only Milken lay on the sofa by the perished television, thumbing through an old copy of the Carmina Burana's sheet music. She watched him throw open the red door and clutch his scarf to his neck as he stared out into the grey and the grain.

"Where are you going?"

Snufkin could see him. He was so very small, the size of a shiny penny.  
"My friend is here."

"Who?" said Milken's voice, though she was ignored as Snufkin walked out of the door without any shoes on and he stepped out onto the stone threshold. His dress was blown about in the wind, and his hair was so long that it stuck into his eyes but Snufkin kept them open and as wide as he possibly could.  
There were indeed two figures, but one of them was far too big for Too-ticky's stature. They were round, red and white all over- a hemulen, it looked like. Moomintroll was tall; but not nearly as tall as this new other person.  
Still they came closer.  
It was only after a few minutes did they realise that Snufkin was standing there, frozen- watching-  
And suddenly Moomin was running, running with things falling out of his backpack, batting grains aside as he did. He started to wave his paws in the air, and Snufkin could hear him call his name from way across the crops.  
Snufkin found his limbs again and started to run, too; he closed the door and sprinted as fast as he could through the frozen earth.

"Snufkin!" Moomintroll called, getting closer and closer.

"Moomin!" he shouted back, raising his hat in the air and waving it wildly.

They got closer and closer, clearer and clearer- until Moomin threw his knapsack into the frost and they were caught in each other by the middle, miles away from the house. Moomin lifted him straight into the air and whirled him around as if he weighed next to nothing. Snufkin squeezed his arms around his furry neck and screwed his eyes shut, feeling the hat whisk away from his head.

"Stop! Stop, I'll be sick!" he laughed as baby tears froze against his cheeks.

"Be sick, you old custard-cream! Oh, you're here! You're here, in my arms!"

The safety of Moomin's winter fur, the strange smell of the jumper he was wearing, the sound of his voice so clear and real in his ear- it all made something seem to break inside of Snufkin's body, almost like a dam deep in the pit of his stomach. It all billowed up into his throat and exploded; causing him to screw up his brown eyes and feel his face turn to red as he stopped laughing and cried like he had never cried before.  
Moomin tangled his arms around his waist and chest, and held on as if they would never let go. "Oh, don't cry! It's alright; I'm here, Snufkin. I love you so. I love you."

Looking back, Snufkin rather felt as if Moomin was being very tough as the long fur of his back and neck was being pulled to bits. Snufkin could only cry and cry and hold on, not caring about the burning embarrassment he would feel later. "I love you too! I'm sorry, Moomintroll, I love you too."

And there they stood, holding and sniffling. For how long, they don't know- but eventually the red-haired stranger approached them at a walking pace and stood over their shoulders. Moomin pulled away gently and wiped the tears from Snufkin's face with the sleeve of his jumper.  
"Don't you cry now. Look, here's one our new friends. Do you recognise her?"

Snufkin drew away and rubbed his face hastily before looking up at the hemulen. She looked a bit concerned, but there was a grin on her face as if waiting for him to make a connection- which he did. "Wait, wait, I do! I do recognise you!"

"You're Snufkin," she said, in a hoarse, heavily-accented voice. "You were at our seafood restaurant last year during the winter!"

"Yes! I remember that! And you're- you're, er, Bangle? Am I getting that right?"

Bangle nodded. "Spot on."

She was a large lady, who smelled of rum and cake icing and her arms jingled with golden bracelets, glimmering in the winter sun. They started to walk back to the house, and Snufkin felt safe and dizzy and disgustingly in love- as if the whole blue world held him in its earthy palms when Moomin interlaced their fingers together. They picked his hat back up on the way and he jammed it over his red eyes without brushing the dirt off.

"This is your house?" said Bangle, as they stood in front of the mill.

"No," said Snufkin softly, opening the door with one paw. "It's only my parents'."

Milken stood by the table with a confused look on her face as they stepped inside. She blinked at the visitors, and straightened her back to go into her professional-and-fancy-translator mode.

Moomin held out his paw and beamed at her. "Hello! I remember you, we spoke on the telephone!"

Milken shook his paw genially. "Ah, you must be Moomin! And you are?"

Bangle shook her head slightly and smiled, as if prodded awake from a daydream. "Oh, my name is Bangle. I'm a sailor; I'm only really here to meet Snufkin again."  
Nevertheless, she shook firm paws with his younger sister and rested her own on her hips, staring around the room with mild interest.

"Too-ticky isn't here yet," whispered Moomin, to Snufkin more than anybody else. He squeezed his paw. "But she will soon. She's only insisted on combing the town before coming hither. I've got someone else with me, too, but I'll tell you about him later."

"Alright," said Snufkin, staring a little too long into Moomin's blue eyes. He felt a deep, burning warmth in his chest that had been missing for so long- and he felt if he would let his paw go, he would surely freeze to death without it.  
So Snufkin leaned ever so closer and crept his right paw over Moomin's inner elbow. Only very slightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agen sorry for da short chapter im licherally so tired rn i was at a sleepover last night.... u know when ur tired and yr eyes hurt and go all itchy. we up eating those spicy skittles ? Do yall know those? They were So good also those rice infusion pringles are also *carl voice* sho freaking good


	14. The Daisy and the Fig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today i fell through the ceiling of my mom's bedroom, i am in big trouble and i dont know what my punishment is going to be so if i dont upload for a while thats why  
> BUT GUISE THANKM YOU SO SO SOS O MUCH FOR 10K HITS ON THIS SHITTY MOOMIN FANFICTION YOUR ALL SO SWEET AND WONDERFUL AND GOSH MR YES IM SO THANKFUL!!! ;___; sumtimes when it feels like its just me and my silvertone mouth organ against the world i read all your wonderful comments and ion feel so alone bro you guys are amazing and your e all swag ok ok **immune system fails*

"... And then, she became so drunk that the poor old bartenders had to ask her to leave. That's when we decided to stay in the inn down the road. Nice place, really."

Snufkin watched Moomintroll shove another mushroom into his mouth before clinking his fork again against the bowl. They were sitting at the kitchen table, eating vegetable soup and waiting for Mymblemamma to come back. And it was very late indeed- with the sky outside being pitch black, and only the dear little gaslamp by the salt-shaker to shed them a light.

"And this Nestor character," said Snufkin uneasily, fiddling with the glove-puppet in his pocket. "Is he still with Too-ticky?"

Moomin nodded. "Yes. But I think she would have preferred to search with Bangle rather than him."

"Yes, well... I don't blame her. Though I suppose I should be grateful that he is willing to help."

Moomin looked up from his fork and creased his eyebrows. The light of the lamp shone right through his white eyelashes and coloured them almost yellow.  
"Snufkin, he's so dreadfully annoying. I'm sure you would hate him."

"I already thoroughly dislike him, believe you me," he whispered, leaning in on the table over his empty bowl. "If he tries anything funny in this house I will surely give him a whack between the eyes."

"I didn't think you had it in you!"

"I can fight," said Snufkin, hotly.

"You're built like a twig," replied Moomin. "As much of an overeager, drippy-nosed sap that Nestor is, I'm genuinely unsure of who would win in a scrap between the two of you."

Snufkin glared at him. "I don't appreciate this sort of joke."

"It's not a joke! Just look at your wrists!"  
Moomin reached over and took Snufkin's paw gently, brushing back the sleeve. He circled his thumb and middle finger over the wrist, easily joining them at the other side. "See? A stick-figure, is what you are. And usually you're even thinner! Mymble must be feeding you well. At least Mama won't have to cook you seven meals a day this spring, the way she usually would after you eating a total of nine peas down the country."

"Do shut up," Snufkin muttered, though he was unable to keep the smile from his face. He crept his paw over Moomin's, and held it over the table. "You're mine, you hear?"

"I hear," said Moomin, fondly. "Of course I won't let Nestor spoil anything. I'm a big boy."

They stayed in silence for a moment. Snufkin looked at him, and he looked at Snufkin, and there was something in his eyes that he couldn't quite put his finger on. His palm became sweaty under Moomin's, and he could feel his neck start to turn all blotchy and red with this new, strange sort of embarrassment. His hat lay abandoned on the floor out of habit (because of Mama's idiotic no-hat-at-the-table rule!), so when he raised his free paw to pull the brim over his eyes it floundered pathetically and he pulled on his fringe instead.

"You need a haircut," said Moomin, voice soft and teasing as anything.

"I'll grow it out all the way and tie it into plaits," he replied, leaning even further over the table. Snufkin could never bring himself to sit properly, preferring to crouch in his seat the way he would when digging for worms. One knee found itself raising to the tablecloth and it met with the surface.  
"Just promise me you won't pull on them."

Moomin regarded his figure slowly climbing onto the table with a lazy sort of smile on his face. "Oh, why would I ever dream of doing such a thing? You must have the wrong idea, Snufkin."

"Do I?" Snufkin whispered doubtfully, his freckled face now very close to Moomin's snout. If he looked down just a bit, he would see the white fur rustle just a little with his breath- but, of course, he was far too busy staring deep into the eyes of his lover.

Unfortunately, at that very moment, the front door clicked open loudly and Snufkin jumped as if he had been burned with a branding-marker. He fell back into his seat with a crash of wood against tiles, and Mymblemamma stepped inside, shaking off her umbrella before closing the door again.  
"Hello," she mumbled to the house, the way you would to nobody in particular. She dropped the umbrella into the coal-pot by the flyswatter. "Ah! Hello, Moomintroll. Lovely to see you."

Snufkin grabbed his hat by the floor, and shoved it onto his head to help with the scorching embarrassment at almost being caught by his very own mother. Moomin sat up straight and gave Mymblemamma a polite smile and nod of the head despite an obvious blush under the fur. "Hullo, Mymble! Lovely to see you, too. How are you?"

"Oh," Mymblemamma sighed heavily and pulled out a chair next to her son. "I'm alright. Just a bit worn around the edges. Won't you pour me some soup, Snufkin?"

Snufkin nodded curtly and stood up to hurry over to the kitchen unit.

"I hope the house isn't such a mess," he heard her say, as he pulled out the cutlery drawer. "I've been so busy!"

"Don't you worry! The place is beautiful; I just know Moominmamma would love all of this wonderful decorating. I simply love these beautiful tiles."

"Oh, I suppose they are beautiful, aren't they?" said Mymblemamma, happily. Snufkin rummaged around among the steel whisks and spatulas and potato-mashers before finally pulling out a ladle.  
"I'm not sure where Joxter gets all of his quirky little things, but I must say he certainly has an eye for trinkets. Have you seen the Persian rug upstairs? And the Turkish cushions?"

"Yes, yes! And those wonderful ceramic hangings in the bathroom! Snufkin gave me a grand little tour of the house before your coming."

"What a good boy!" Mymbelmamma called over to him as he poured her a generous bowl of soup. "What time is it now? Golly, I can hear the children upstairs. Nobody's put them to bed."

"I'm sorry," Snufkin mumbled, placing the china bowl in front of her. "I'll do it. Moomin, come with me."

They both stood up together and made for the stairs. Mymbelmamma grabbed hold of Snufkin's collar before he could get away, and gave him a big kiss on the temple. "Thank you, sweetheart."  
He grumbled something hasty and pulled away, scuffling his paws all over his forehead and cheek to wipe away her perfume.

The two of them stumbled up the stairs to the children's quarters, where they were expanding on their crayon mural. On Moomin's arrival, some of them had tried to bite and scratch him in a friendly sort of manner- and now that he appeared again without scolding them too badly, they only tried to hold onto his legs to stop him from moving.

"Oh! Help!"

"Hey! Hey, hey, paws off!" Snufkin yelled, trying to pull four of them at once off of his friend's body.

"Snufkin, Snufkin!" Somebody was tapping hard on the back of his leg. He turned around, a joxter and a mumrik under either arm, and saw the little girl who had sat with him hours earlier. She was already in her nightgown, and had two pieces of folded paper in her paws.

"Ah, have you finished?" he said, wearily.

She nodded. Snufkin took a deep breath.  
_"EVERYBODY!"_

All of the children fell deadly silent. Snufkin didn't think he had ever raised his voice so loudly before! He put the two boys down and dug his hand in his pocket for the puppet.  
The little creep snuck out and peered around at them with her brown eyes.  
"Look at all of you," said the puppet. "All so hyperactive. You know what I think?"

A few of them giggled. A few of them said 'what?' a little too loudly, and were promptly shushed by the creep. "Quiet! Do you know what I think, Snufkin?"

Snufkin turned his head to the puppet, putting on a faux expression of great interest. "What?"

"I don't think any of these kids can get dressed for bed and brush their teeth within five minutes flat."

Immediately, several of the boys started to clamour and protest otherwise. Snufkin hid his face from the puppet, who yelled:  
"Silence! See what I mean, Snufkin? They couldn't even stay quiet for two seconds."

"I know!" replied Snufkin. "Well... maybe we should give them the benefit of the doubt. They are only babies, after all."

Almost every child looked inconceivably scandalized, but they were smart enough to stay quiet. Moomin was smiling and watching him go at it. The puppet sighed.  
"I think you're right."

"I'm certainly not a baby," hissed the eldest mymble grumpily, from where she stood by the bathroom door.

One of the little girly joxters put her hand up. "Please!"

"Yes?"

"I'm not a baby either," she insisted, tapping her chest with a dark, fuzzy finger. "The ghost tapped on my bedframe and brushed my hair, and I wasn't even a little bit frightened."

"Well?" said the puppet, loudly. "What are you waiting for, then? Go! Prove yourselves!"

They all scrammed into their respective bedrooms. All but the little mumrik who was already dressed, who held the pages behind her back and watched them all run about in a tizzy. Snufkin didn't put the puppet back yet; but instead, gave Moomin a silly sort of smug look.  
"There. Easy as pie."

"You've already got children of your own," said Moomin, nudging his shoulder.

"Yes, I have. Will you come with me to visit them in January?"

"Of course I will."

The little girl turned towards them and raised her eyebrows big-brother-fashion at the two lads. "Now, will you see my letter? I know you aren't so fierce; you were only putting on a performance for the other kiddies."

The puppet rose back up into the air and wrung her velvety paws. "You've got me sussed out," she said, in her old squeaky voice. "If my name isn't Shrinking-Violet! What have you got for me, eh?"

The little one pulled out the pieces of paper and presented the first one. "Here's the Official List of All Things Blue and Beautiful."

Shrinking-Violet took it, gratefully. "Thank you! And the other?"

"A letter from the ghost."

At this point, some of the faster children had already gathered round in their nighthings and slippers, all lace and ribbons tied very haphazardly and stripy pyjamas being buttoned all wrong indeed.  
The puppet held out the list so that Snufkin could squint at it and read aloud,

 

"The Official List of All Things Blue and Beautiful.  
1\. My frock.  
2\. Mymble's eyes.  
3\. Kibble's eyes.  
4\. The sky.  
5\. The ocean.  
6\. Milken's book of original poetry.  
7\. Milken's eardrops.  
8\. Blomma's inkpens.  
9\. The willow pattern china in the glass cabinet.  
10\. The extra pair of boots in Snufkin's bag.  
11\. The Le Creuset pots in the kitchen.  
12\. Mama's perfume bottles.  
13\. Papa's second Magnum Opus."

 

"Magnum Opus?" said Moomin, looking over Snufkin's shoulder.

"Papa likes to write books," said one of the children. "But he never finishes them," said another.

"I'd doubt it," Snufkin muttered, folding the list and tucking it into his pocket. "Well-done, sisko. We'll do lots of baking tomorrow."

"Read the ghosty letter," one of the children piped up. He recognised her as one of the sweeter kids who liked to hang on his arm a bit, though he couldn't quite remember her name.

"Alright."  
He held the piece of paper in his paws and squinted at the words. Well, 'words' was putting it nicely. There seemed all but mindless scribbles and little pictures scattered everywhere, as if somebody had spilled a box of anagrams. All across the margins were the same crude drawing of a tiny little triangle.

He lowered the page and gave the children a confused look.  
"I'm afraid I can't make heads nor tails of this. These aren't words."

"That's what I said!" One of the little mumriks stamped his bare foot against the landing. "Nobody believed me, even when I can read grown-up books!"

"What does the triangle mean?" Snufkin turned the paper around and pointed at the little drawings.

The children collectively shrugged.  
"We don't know!"

"Golly, this is a puzzle. Moomin, can you read Chinese?"

Moomin took the letter from him and frowned. "This isn't Chinese. This is shorthand."

"Short-what?"

"Shorthand," he repeated, pointing at the scribbles with his index finger. "The Pitman kind. Snorkmaiden knows it. I recognise it from her diary entries."

"You read her diary?"

"No! Well-" Moomin squirmed slightly. "When you say it like that, you make me out to be malicious. I did read it, but- I couldn't understand a word, could I?"

"Right," said Snufkin, raising his eyebrows at the page and blinking. "So, there's a ghost who can write in Pitman shorthand haunting our house. Brilliant." He pocketed the letter and turned towards the children once again, who were watching in awe.  
"OK, everybody sit down. Does anybody have a fantastic story to tell us before we all go to bed?"

 

*

 

Later on, when everybody was sleeping (except for Bangle, who was reading Milken's poetry on the sofa downstairs), Moomin and Snufkin were brushing their teeth in the bathroom.  
In the soft light of a fair few candles, they looked into the dirty mirror at themselves and one another, both silent enough as friends can be. Moomintroll leaned in slightly and tried to flatten an extra bit of long fur on the back of his neck.  
"I never realised it could grow so long. It's colder than it ever has been back in Moominvalley."

Snufkin drew back his sleeves to glance at his forearms, which were covered in red fur. "I'm used to the whole winter coat thing, I suppose. Though I usually never take this thing off to see it." He plucked at his dress and sighed. "Do I smell?"

Moomin hesitated. "No."

"Liar."

"I'm used to it," said Moomin quickly, looking at him rather than his reflection. "It's nice; homely. It's a very you sort of smell."

Snufkin hid his face in his paws. "Oh god. Mymblemamma keeps telling me to take a bath, and now that I think of it- so does Moominmamma! You've seen the way she threatens me with a hose."

"When was the last time you washed?"

A pause. Snufkin wrung his paws nervously and stared at his own face turning red in the looking glass. "August."

"Oh."

"You only have to take baths often because your fur is white!"

" _And_ because I have basic hygiene!"

"You live in a house."

"You live beside a _river_. I rest my case."

"Go lick some stamps," said Snufkin, mock-irritably, stepping away from the mirror to tug his trousers off. "I'm washing now, then; you bully."

While he undressed, Moomin finished brushing his teeth and scrubbed at his face with a flannel. Snufkin wasn't entirely sure how to turn the taps on, simply because the only bathtubs he had ever really been in were large and wooden, or great holes in the earth. He reached over and turned the flowery-shaped handle for good measure.  
Water started to spill out of the nozzle and into the freestanding porcelain. It was ice cold when he put his paw under it.

"Oh... you know I love cold water," he said miserably, feeling himself start to shiver. "But I just don't know if-"

"Let me feel," Moomin interrupted, sticking his own paw under the water. "Ouch! That is cold. Would you like me to switch on the kettle for you?"

Snufkin frowned at him. "Surely you don't expect me to bathe in boiling water?"

He rolled his eyes. "No, Snufkin. If you fill the tub now with cold water, I can come back upstairs with the kettle and warm it up. Two parts hot water, 5 parts cold. Get it?"

"Ah," said Snufkin, nodding. "I do. Okay."

And so he sat on the porcelain and waited while Moomin left for downstairs. Snufkin took off his hat and socks, and began to unpeel the bandages around his chest.  
He felt strange, being so bare; and it could have been because of the cold, or the fact that he and Moomintroll were now more than friends.  
Well. They had always been a little more. But now, they were explicitly significant others, and Snufkin wasn't sure if this sort of thing was weird or not anymore. He had nothing to work from, if you didn't count Wimsy.

His tail started to twitch agitatedly, and he rubbed the freckles on his knees to calm himself. It was just a bath. And he _did_ smell.

Moomin came back up the stairs a few minutes later with the red kettle in paw. He smiled at Snufkin and closed the door with his foot. "Here," he said, walking over to the tub. "This'll heat it up in no time."  
Snufkin watched the boiling water pour into the cold, his fingers drumming on his thighs.  
He opened his mouth, hesitated. And then said, shyly, "Would you join me?"

"Of course," said Moomin, bending to place the kettle on the bathroom floor, carefully. "I haven't been brave enough to wash under the ocean-ice. I may be furry but I can still certainly freeze to death."

He felt a silly sort of relief at Moomin's offhandedness and tested the water with his paw. It was just right. "Ah, that's nice. I'll get in, then."

Moomin climbed in shortly after him, and they both sort of sat under the warm water for a while; Snufkin drawing his knees to chest, and Moomin avidly watching his sodden fur drip.  
"So, about tomorrow," he said, dipping his arm back under.

"Yes, tomorrow," Snufkin echoed.

"I've asked Too-ticky and Nestor to bring as many people as they can to look, but I'm not sure if there's many awake even if it isn't as cold. There was only one bar and one inn open. If only Oili were a giant forest-spirit instead of a giant sea-spirit..."

"Yeah," said Snufkin, watching Moomin's long fur shimmer under the water.

"I think we should get the cave-dwelling over and done with. Face our fears. Then we can look through the burrows or this, that and the other. What do you think?"

"Sounds good," said Snufkin, now watching Moomin's tail flicker around his ankles. Wonderfully fascinating how hair can become so flowy and liquid when underwater.

"Didn't you mention that Joxter is very fond of apples? Do you think he could be up an apple tree?"

"Yeah," said Snufkin, vaguely.

"Snorkmaiden is going to have a baby."

He choked. "What??"

"So now you listen!" said Moomin, looking at him reproachfully. "Jokes. You'll make me self-conscious with all that staring."

"Sorry."

"What, are you annoyed that we got interrupted a little earlier on?"

"No! I mean- yes, of course; but there's a time and a place..." Snufkin felt his face go red for the hundredth time, and his tail started to swish with frustration. Moomin's tail found his, and gently curled around it.

"You're right," said Moomin, very softly. "But I feel like there's something else on your mind. Are you not comfortable with this?"

Snufkin shook his head vigorously. "Oh, no! Yes, no, this is alright. I'm sorry, I'm saying all the wrong things, aren't I?"

"Don't be silly."

"Sorry. I'm just a little drained, is all. Long day."

"I'd say so," said Moomin, beckoning Snufkin with his paws. "Turn around."

Snufkin obediently scooched around in the water so that he faced the faucet. He jumped ever so slightly at the paws on his back, but eventually leaned into the touch as Moomin combed through his thick, red fur.  
"This wasn't here last time," he said, his low voice so close to Snufkin's ear. "You've got ginger moss all over."

"You know what one of the little ones said to me?" said Snufkin. "She said I had a great red thicket for hair."

"Well, she has a point. You're almost like a thicket in itself, too. You're a little thorny on the outside, but I know there's a certain way you can crawl inside and sit in the soft grass. There's daisies, too. I know you like daisies."

"You're like a daisy all over. Often as a child I'd wish I were small enough to sleep in a flower because they looked so soft, and now I'm sure I'd be able to sleep in you. You're a great fluffy bed."

Moomin snickered and poured some of the soap by the windowsill into his paws. "Alright, then I'm a great big chamomile and you're a sweet little fig. I'll be big, and pretty, and I'll put you to sleep!"

"And why would I be a fig?" said Snufkin, grinning and reaching back so that he could touch Moomin's knees. Moomin started to scrub the soap into his fur, ever so gently. "I don't know, just feels right. You're sweet and you're little."

"Oh, really. Just because you've had a growth spurt these late few years doesn't mean you have to tease me constantly."

"Yes it does."

And so Moomin washed his back and his hair with those soft and careful paws, and Snufkin let himself be cared for. He wasn't a fan of the soap and how it tasted when it ran down his face, but that seemed so utterly minor it was hard to care. All that mattered was how he was slowly sinking, further and further back, until Snufkin lay against his Moomin and closed his eyes. The water had gone cool at this point, but he was so warm.

"Snufkin."

"What."

"You're purring."

"Amn't I just."

Moomin laughed, and his chest heaved against Snufkin's shoulders. "Don't you think we'd be better off with this sort of carry-on upstairs? Dry?"

"One moment."

"You're silly," said the paws smoothing up his arms. His fur was stroked in the opposite direction, and instead of being unpleasant as one would imagine, it made Snufkin smile and his legs break into goosebumps.  
"Alright, alright, we'll get out. We should do this more often in Moominvalley, you know. In that little pond."

"Yes, maybe you'll bathe more often if I go with you."

"You jest; but the jokes on you, because you want to go with me just as much."

"How can you tell? I don't purr."

Snufkin sat up slowly and looked back at him, eyes dilated. The candles flickered for just a moment.  
"Don't you worry, Moomintroll. I can tell just fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys you must sing "everybody" in the backstreets back voice when snufkin yells at the children


	15. Orange Peel

The next day, Snufkin woke up on the floor of the attic with one of the floral sheets bundled up to his waist. He sat up, stretched out his arms and his neck, and opened the trapdoor to let a bit of morning light in. The sunlight from the third floor shone in and lit up the sofa, where Moomin was sleeping on his stomach with two paws under his snout.  
Snufkin stayed very still by the door and watched him for a moment, the memory of the previous night filling his head and heart like someone were pouring it into his ears. 

"Moomintroll," he said, tapping the velvety fabric under his head. "Wake up. Breakfast."

Moomin opened his eyes slowly and rubbed at his pale eyelashes to get rid of the sleep. "Morning. What time is it?"

"Not sure," he said, now looking around the room for his clothes. He picked them up by the curtain, but did not see his old hat anywhere. "Today's pancake day; you'd better hurry. Do you, by any chance, know where it is that I put my hat?"

Moomintroll got out of bed and yawned, stretching and shaking out his limbs before turning to creep down the ladder. "I don't, no. Sorry. Check behind the couch, I might have knocked it under while we were otherwise engaged." He disappeared downstairs. Snufkin looked behind the venetian sofa. Nothing.

"Great."  
He kicked the bundle of sheets across the room and angrily started to climb down the steps after Moomin. First his father, now his hat. 

When Snufkin got to the kitchen, Milken had come back from her workplace at the printing press with a stack of pages detailing the Joxter predicament. She laid them out on the kitchen table next to the pancakes.  
"Where's Mymblemamma?" said Snufkin, looking over the posters. 

"Out with the spawn," said Milken.

"In this weather?" he said vaguely, not expecting an answer. He picked up one of the pages in his paw and read it aloud. 

"Missing Persons - The Joxter.  
Last seen in early December, leaving the old grain mill in the canola fields at night.  
2 ft 11, black hair and yellow eyes. Wearing a red hat, green coat and cowry shell necklace. Has a Scouse accent.  
Joxter has terrible Alzyner's and could be wandering about in a state; so if found, please call the number below. 

Milken, you've spelled Alzheimer's completely wrong."

Milken frowned and grabbed one of the pages. "Where?"

Moomin leaned over and pointed. "There, you spell it with an M instead of an N. I'm sure there's a H in there, too."

"Oh, damn the thing!" Milken despaired, "I had to take out about a month's wages for all of these! How can I be so stupid?"

"Well, what matters is that it gets the point across," said Bangle, who was sitting on the kitchen counter. She drew her paw out of the old biscuit tin and combed out her red hair with her fingers, getting ginger crumbs all over it in the process. "You and I shall post them about in the village, but I suppose we should all wait until Too-ticky and the Fool come back from wherever."

"That's a good idea," said Moomin, sitting primly down at the table. "Haven't found your hat, Snufkin? You're still in your underwear, by the way."

"I know," he said grumpily, scraping out a chair and sitting down. "And no, my hat isn't in the attic; someone's obviously taken it. I'll bet it was Kibble."

And so the four of them sat in relative silence as they ate; Bangle and Milken sitting at one side of the table, Moomin and Snufkin sitting at the other. Snufkin made an unholy amount of scraping noises with his knife and fork as he cut his pancakes up. He was getting awfully sick of this damned house.  
They finished breakfast; and the rest of the morning and afternoon was spent simply moping about and listening to the radio. Snufkin sat on the table and played with his claws. Moomin stared into space with his arms crossed. Bangle slid one of the glass beads of her bracelets round and round, and Milken rocked back and forth slowly by the sofa, petting her tweed hat. 

"What time is it?" said Bangle, suddenly.

"Five past three," said Milken. 

"Clearly it isn't," said Snufkin, pointing at the clock above the egg timer. It read for ten to two. 

"That clock is wrong."

"Oh? And what such correct clock are you reading from?"

"This one," Milken pulled back her waistcoat and flashed her pocket-watch. It also read for ten to two. She frowned at it. "Oh. Well, I had checked it five minutes ago and thought... I suppose I've misinterpreted."

"You need glasses."

"So do you, Snufkin," said Moomin, frowning. "Don't be so mean."

He shot him a look over his shoulder. "I'm not being mean and I certainly don't need any glasses."

"Why don't we read aloud a bit of poetry?" said Bangle loudly. She picked up Milken's blue-bound notebook and shook it open. "To lighten the spirits. Turn that radio off, there. Right-" She cleared her throat and peered around at the others to see if they were listening. Snufkin and Moomin were watching attentively; whereas Milken was turning rather red and bashful.  
"It's not very good..."

"Nonsense," said Bangle, briskly. "Number twenty-five: The Duck.

There's a dead duck by the jetty.  
I'm not sure how it died,  
But there's a hole in its heart  
And the feathers of his mossen neck  
Have all been torn away.  
Somebody watches me, she's  
Got feathers of pear and earth  
And even though she is quiet and fearful  
She stays by her lover's side, mourning  
And solemn beneath the thickets.  
In the morning I will come back  
And look down into the water,  
He will be gone. So will she  
And I will wonder where it is that  
These two birds have flown."

There was a slight pause. "Oh," whispered Moomin, very sadly. "That was depressing."

"Is mossen a word?" Snufkin inquired. Everybody glared at him. He thought this was very unfair indeed and crossed his arms defiantly. "It's simply a question!"

"And you're simply a dickhead," said Bangle, flicking through the book. 

"Right. Well, if you're all going to read poetry that doesn't even rhyme and then spew obscenities and expletives to my face; I think I shall make myself scarce and smoke upstairs," said Snufkin, standing up on the table and jumping off towards the staircase. The three of them watched him stomp angrily up to the other part of the house with mild interest. The ceiling shook, and the china tinkled nervously inside of their cabinets. 

"By George," said Bangle with an amused chuckle. "Somebody's certainly got the painters in."

Moomintroll shot her a stern look from the table. "Don't joke about that. We must make allowances."

"Allowances, for what? Bellend-ery?" She stretched out her arms and yawned, showing pointed gold teeth- before turning to push the lacey curtains aside. Bangle peered out of the window and brushed the crumbs off of her front. "Oh, visitors. Or, visitor- excuse me. Uniform at twelve o' clock."

"I thought we established that it was 2," said Milken. 

"An expression, Milkweed. Come look out the window and tell me who it is."  
Milken sat up with her knees digging into the couch cushions and brushed open the curtains. She stuck her head into the window to see who it was.  
"A postman."

"I don't like postmen," said Bangle.

Moomin stood up and made for the door, opening it carefully in advance for the squat, blue-uniformed creep who waved a polite and gloved paw. "Afternoon!" Moomin called, waving back. 

"Telegram!" said the postman shyly, jogging over in the crunchy frost and pulling a piece of yellowed paper out of his bag. "From one Blomma."

"Ah," said Moomin, taking the telegram gratefully. "Thank you, sir."

"Nae bother," he replied, pulling on the red scarf to further squeeze around his neck. He gave Moomin an earnest look. "Do you, by chance, happen to know a lass of the name Too-ticky?"

Moomin nodded. "Yes, why?"

"Ah, she's told me to lay on a message!" he said. "Was a great crowd of creatures with her. Wae nae one of them without the look of dire straits on their faces. Said to me: tell the lads of the grain-mill that I'll be late coming; and don't expect me 'til the evening. Now- am no free messenger, I told her, but she's a stern face and there be a dagger in her pocket! Does this all make sense to you?"

Moomin gave the postman an awkward smile. "Yes, yes; she'll be late coming and I'm not to expect her until the evening. Is that right?"

"Yep," said the postman, turning on his heel and starting to walk away. "Chilly today, innit? Ye canny beat a bitta crackin' winter weather."

Moomin nodded and walked back inside, reading the telegram to himself. Milken and Bangle watched him with great interest. "Who's it from?" they said, simultaneously.

"Blomma," said Moomin. "I remember speaking to her on the telephone. Here, read it aloud." 

He handed it to Bangle, who brought it close to her snout. "HAVE LEFT MY SHORTHAND COPYBOOK AT THE HOUSE STOP IT IS RED WITH MY NAME ON THE INSIDE STOP IF FOUND PLEASE SEND TO ADDRESS ABOVE STOP."

"You needn't shout," said Milken, reproachfully.

"It's in capital letters," Bangle replied.

Moomin nervously looked towards the stairs and wrung his paws together. "Oh dear, she's lost one of her copybooks for school. I'd say all of her note-takings are in it. Snufkin!" he called as loudly as he could, resting an elbow on the banister. 

"What?" came Snufkin's muffled voice from the attic.

"Stop sulking and come down!"

"I'm not sulking!"

"Prove it!"

There came a crash of boots against floorboards and of somebody noisily making their way down the stairs again. A bad mood in the shape of Snufkin appeared by the banisters, fully dressed and without the hat.  
He took his pipe from his mouth and raised his eyebrows at the lot of them. "Yes?"

"Have you seen a red copybook lying around?" said Moomin, uncertainly. "Here, read this." Snufkin took the telegram from him and scanned through it quickly. 

"No," he muttered, folding it. "She didn't seem the type to leave things behind. Strange."

"You think the children might have it?" Moomin whispered, bringing his dull claws to his teeth to chew on them. "Don't you remember the letter that they gave us?"

"You mean the Chinese one?"

"Stop that; you know what I mean. They might have copied the notes down thinking it a secret language."

Snufkin furrowed his red eyebrows. "I think you're right, Moomin. I'll have to ask them when they come home. Break out the old puppet."

They went to sit down at the table together. "Well..." Moomin pulled off a piece of balled-up lint from Snufkin's shoulder, looking a little troubled. "That postman's only after passing on a message from Too-ticky, telling us she won't be here for hours. I think we should all venture out until the evening, in that case."

Snufkin brushed his paw away; but gently, and his own fingers lingered on Moomin's before drawing away ever so slowly. Milken nodded by the sofa, thoughtfully. "Good thinking. I wonder why she won't be back so soon."

"Probably drawing up a band of misfits," said Bangle loudly, getting up from the couch cushions to pull her hair back into a wild ponytail. She tied it with a piece of velvet ribbon from her pocket and gestured for Milken to stand up, too. "You come with me. Snufkin and Moomin can roam the holts and have the world to each other."

Snufkin glared at her from across the salt and pepper shakers. "Keep out of it!"

"When I'm dead, rancid old codger," she chided, steering a blinking Milken by the shoulders towards the red front door and kicking it open. The broken wind chime on the doorknob tinkled pathetically. 

 

*

 

Snufkin and Moomin took to the northern part of the forests, where they had settled on searching over the phone what felt like so long ago. Snufkin was glad to breathe in the sharp air, smell the bark and kick his way through the wet, decomposing leaves in the earth. With them, they had brought thick red wool- where they would tie round a particular tree every once in a while to signify that the area had been scoured. 

"Oh, to be out and unbound!" Snufkin sighed, after blowing a generous amount of smoke into the wind. "I'll never live in a house as long as I live! I don't think anybody lives among these trees. Not so deep into this weather, for sure. What do you think, Moomin?"

"Think what?" Moomin replied, treading gingerly over the sharp twigs and stones. 

"Of this!" he said, gesturing at the deadened trees they walked plainly past. "This place. The house, the forests, the fields... tell me your opinions."

"Well..."  
They climbed over little hills and bits of mysterious concrete that balanced over slow streams and empty burrows in the ground. The absence of flowers was unsettling, and Moomin found himself wishing bitterly for even a dandelion or clover to cross their paths. "I like the house; it's got a lot of character. I do think it romantic to live in an old grain mill."

"Romantic?" said Snufkin, giving Moomin a teasing smile. Moomin's heart skipped over itself at the lovely image before him. "I haven't heard you use that word in a while."

"It doesn't seem to deal some things half the justice," Moomin mumbled, keeping his eyes on his love's little sharp teeth. His paw seemed to grow a will of its own, and it caught against Snufkin's. Snufkin laced their fingers together and smiled shyly at the oncoming foliage.  
"Yes, the house. It's fun. The children are a laugh, and I'm fond of the elder sisters. Don't you ever wonder where your older siblings are?"

Snufkin shrugged. "Not really. But it briefly crossed my mind when Mymblemamma was telling me stories of when I was young.  
There was this one girl, Bindweed- one of my half-sisters. Very talented at sewing and mending; kept all of the newspaper cuttings on how to join locknit seams and darn the elbows of jumpers or whatever with all these fancy different stitches... well, there a time when I was three; and had decided that I was going to pour black pen ink down the front of every single one of my dresses. We were skint- and I couldn't spend the week without any clothes to wear, so I was forced to wear the soiled frocks as punishment.  
"Bindweed couldn't bear to see me pad about so miserably, so she took to the machine and made me an outfit of green not unlike what I wear now."  
Snufkin pulled at the hem of his dress and inspected the frayed edges. "Apparently, I was thrilled. Green has always been my favourite colour.  
It all makes me wonder sometimes what became of them after I left home. Mymblemamma told me of one of her boys, Mostin; who was very fond of oranges. Moss would bring home these great big nets of the fruit in his backpack, and sit on the kitchen counter to eat them every morning and supper. Mama says that the smell would drive me crazy. I would walk over to him every day and ask for a piece, and every time he would give me a bit of the orange peel so that I could sniff and pretend I was tasting it!"

Moomin couldn't help but laugh. "You poor thing! How mean of him!"

"Yeah, it was mean. Poor Moss, he's not with us anymore. I've been told he died a long time ago."

"Oh. How come, may I ask?"

"I'm not sure how to pronounce it. It's TG or TB, something or other... Ridiculous, Mymblemamma said that he caught it on the tram and refused any hospital treatment."

"But I wouldn't imagine you going to a hospital, either?"

"No. But it was a deadly, infectious disease that was spread very easily; and I would rather have a stranger in white poking about under my skirts than place my siblings' lives in mortal danger."

They walked on; looked up, looked down, checked the hollows, peeked under and behind the shrubs. The trees were spaced out evenly, and there was a lack of good hiding space if you didn't count the treetops. Hundreds of trunks were wrapped with red wool, it seemed; and eventually, Moomin's legs started to hurt and Snufkin had long since let go of his paw.  
The caves were drawing nearer. The ground started to dip, and they came across a clearing of the trees in which there was a lonely, silent graveyard to their morbid surprise.  
It seemed a creepy coincidence to what they had been talking about only so recently.

In the cemetery, all of the headstones were stuck out of a lush field of grass. The earth rose and fell in some areas, but was overall even and undisturbed. On some of the tombs, the rock was so old that it would peel off behind them, and the engravings were eroded to nothing. Yellow lichen grew like great blooming flowers all over each and every one of the stones and some were were even overgrown with ivy and thorny blackberry bushes. The lamb of God could be seen carved into plenty of the crosses, if not all of them- and the sacred heart burned into the concrete on of the old vaults that had been beaten into the ground. Moomin and Snufkin tread carefully over the graves, looking all around at each of the pointed spokes, eroded angels and every porcelain holy Mary. 

"I don't like this place..." Moomin whispered nervously, wrapping a bit of wool round and round his fingers. "It gives me the creeps."

"Are there no graveyards in Moominvalley?" said Snufkin, bending down to squint at the faded writing on one of the headstones. 

"Yes, of course there is. But it's behind the Lonely Mountains, and I've never been."

"You should be thankful you've never been."

"I suppose so."

They tiptoed round the cemetery for another while. It wasn't too big- but it wasn't small, either. Snufkin entered that wide-eyed low-shouldered mode and Moomin let him scuttle about while he lumbered around like some great heavy bowl of pudding. It wasn't until he looked behind one of the particularly strange-looking headstones did they find something alarming. 

Moomin traced a finger over the intricately woven pattern in the ringed cross. There were words carved into the stone that he could read if he tilted his head to the right ever so slightly...

"I mbuan chuimhne ar...  
Suaimhneas síoraí dá anam...  
Ar dheis sé go raibh a hanam dílis."

"Snufkin, come and look at this memorial and tell me what language it is," he called, keeping his eyes on the carvings. He heard Snufkin quietly approach from a few stones away. His footsteps stopped, however; but Moomin did not look up to see the expression on his face. 

"Read it."

"Moomin."

"What?"  
He glanced towards Snufkin, who was standing behind the cross and staring at the grass beneath his boots. "What is it?"

He tore his eyes away from the ground and looked at Moomin- and when he did, there was a visceral sort of fear, misery and determination inside of him all at the same time. "Look."

Moomin skirted round the cross to see what it was that had his lover in such turmoil. Lying on the grass, like the skeleton of a dead creature, was a necklace- of split and broken cowry shells, all tied together with brown cord and wooden beads.  
Snufkin bent over and picked it up, ever so gently, with paws that shook like the leaves in the evergreens. Moomin leaned in for a better view. They both simply stared at it for the longest time. 

"This is Joxter's," said Snufkin, eventually.

"Oh," said Moomin. 

"I've never seen him without it." Moomin chanced a glance at Snufkin, and felt a deep pang in the pit of his chest at the swirling tears that were welled in those brown eyes.  
His paw made an aborted movement as if to touch his arm- but stopped halfway. 

"He's dead," Snufkin gasped, suddenly. The tears started to spill and Moomin felt his heart break cleanly in two.

"No!" he said, shaking his head. He gently opened Snufkin's arms so that there was space to wrap his own around his middle. Snufkin pressed his head into Moomin's side and held on as if he would never let go. "No, of course he isn't dead. We musn't lose hope, this is our clue!"

"He's gone! He's- we'll- we can't find him! We'll never find him!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alex g just came out with a new single and now i am filled wifh so much love it doesnt even matter that i have to go to the psychiatrist lads tomorrow i have a whole fucking sandy album to spend the summer looking forward to :,)!!!


	16. I Don't Recall

There was a particular floorboard in the landing that made a very loud squealing sound whenever stepped upon. Something pushed down on it again and again, rocking their invisible paw against the wood. Was there something trapped inside of it? Underneath it? A mouse, perhaps? Or one of the babies?

The babies... something stirred gently inside of its chest, like a fluttering feather brushing against the lung of a creep. The very thought of the babies sparked this tickling feeling inside of it, and it became terribly excited to see them once again.

"I musn't get distracted", it said, without any voice. "I must open this door. Open the door. Open the door."  
The door was pushed open. Creak! Oh, did you hear that? Put your ear to the hinges.

_Hinges.  
Joxter, the hinges need oiling. Joxter. Joxter! Are you listening?_

"Who is Joxter?" said the invisible thing, creeping ever so slowly past the bump in the floor where wood met carpet. It ran its fingers over each and every burning fibre and listened. "Hello! Can anybody hear me?"

Ten pairs of eyes flashed against the light of the landing. They watched the invisible thing silently, bodies trembling and paws tangled over one another in the bedsheets. Not one of them made a single sound- they only sat there.

"The babies!" said the thing. "So many of them, aren't they sweet?"

_This is your baby. Joxter, look. The eyes on this one, did you see that? It's inherited your third eyelid._

"My baby?"

_You know when. You send me a birthday letter every year._

"Birthday letter? Excuse me, I don't recall."

_No, Papa, we met back in the autumn. Don't you remember? You were with us at the Muddler's son's birthday party._

"I don't know who that is," it said uncertainly, watching one of the black-eyes babies reach out and touch its paw. She curled her fingers around its thumb, and said something in a tiny frightened voice- but it was too distracted to hear her. It dug its free paw into a fold in the invisible fabric, and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper.  
"Ah, yes. I remember now. It's all coming back to me."  
It opened it up and handed it to the baby. She took it and stared at it, eyebrows creased up in fear.

"A letter in your language," it explained to her, kindly. "Please give it to your mother."

 

 

"You must give that to Snufkin," said one of the mymbles from the top bunks. They were all leaning over the wooden banister, paws clamped over each other in fright.  
Clover was the only girl brave enough to stand in the middle of the rug, and accept the torn letter that floated from the paw of the ghost. She clutched it stiffly and looked back at her sisters.

"It's right in front of me," she whispered.

"We know," said Kibble. "Run out now, he's downstairs in the kitchen!"

"It's another shorthand letter, he won't believe me!" said Clover, almost hysterically. The door started to creak again, closing slowly and slowly.

"Quickly!" Kibble shouted, almost falling off of the bed in her haste. "It's getting away! Go!"


	17. In Which Too-ticky Solves A Problem

"Go!"

Mymblemamma gave the ceiling a weary look. "Oh, what are they shouting about now?"

It was 8pm. Moomin, Snufkin, Milken, Bangle and Mymblemamma were all sitting at the table, pawing at their respective cups of cold tea. Snufkin held his grubby sleeve over his eyes, and his mouth was a straight line of distress.  
He wasn't sure why, but following the discovery of the necklace in the graveyard there seemed to be a deep, black hole carved into the pit of his stomach. He was so sure that it was an omen. What was one to do?  
The Joxter had hardly been a present father. Snufkin had never known what it was like to be loved the way a father loves his son. But he thinks back to the letters, full of questions and little stories. The birthday party, when he had asked Snufkin when his own birthday was. When Mymblemamma had insisted that he come over for the winter, simply because Joxter had been too awkward to tell him face-to-face that he wanted to spend more time together.  
 _Together._

Snufkin can't cry again. No, he must look up at the ceiling and let the tears seep back into his body; stop the coiling burn in his throat. He can't cry. Snufkins don't cry.

"Snufkin! Mama!"  
There was a pattering noise by the stairs, and one of the little ones came careering down towards the kitchen table. There was a crumpled piece of paper in her paw.  
Snufkin was surprised out of his misery, and he watched her approach him in slight trepidation at the feral look in her eyes.

She thrust the page into his paws and looked fearfully over her shoulder towards the staircase. "Help! The ghost- the ghost gave us another letter-"

Snufkin rolled his eyes and slapped the paper down onto the table without reading it. "Oh my lord, will you stop it with this ghost lark? It's gone too far! I know you've been stealing copybooks and hats and god-knows-what, using this silly game as an excuse to do what you like! I've had it up to here-!"

"You don't understand!" shouted the little one, with such animosity that everybody at the table gave her an alarmed look. "It was in our room, it opened the door on its own! It gave me the damned letter and I even took hold of its thumb!"

Mymblemamma stood up angrily. "Clover, if I catch you using such language again-"

"It's somewhere in the house! Oh, please!" Clover danced on the spot in her haste. "Are you not an exorcist? Do something!"

"That's enough out of you!" Mymblemamma stooped down and scooped the child up in her arms. She carried her over her shoulder and made for the stairs, once again. "We're settling this now. Shame on you, waking your poor brothers and sisters all for some silly joke."

The whole time this malarkey was going on before them, nobody noticed Moomin freezing up by the table with a look of ludicrous thought on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, eyes wide- but then saw Snufkin's furious expression, and closed it once again. Seemingly abandoning whatever nonsensical theory his brain had pulled together, he sat back into his seat and folded his arms.

There was a knock on the door. "I'll get it," said Bangle, scraping out her chair backwards and standing up. She jogged over to the front door and turned the knob, clicking it open. "Hello, Nestor."

"Hi, Bangle." Nestor peered inside, whiskers twitching, his grey hair windswept and unkempt. He caught sight of Moomin, and waved cheerfully. "Hello!"

"Hi," said Moomin, carefully. "Where's Too-ticky?"

"Just behind me," said Nestor. He walked inside and brushed bits of snow from his cardigan. "Golly, I'm absolutely wrecked! Could do with a nice rest after all of that combing!"

Snufkin turned around in his seat and the two of them stared at each other for a moment. Nestor realised who exactly he was looking at, and nervously pulled his woolly sleeves over his paws. Snufkin crossed his arms and tilted his chin upwards.

"Hullo."

"Hi."

"So, this is Nestor."

Before Nestor could answer, Bangle stood with the door open, and let an exhausted Too-ticky inside. She shook her coat off outside of the threshold, and turned towards the heat of the kitchen. Smiling at Moomin and Snufkin, Too-ticky brushed the blonde hair from her forehead and looked around the room.

"Hello, hello! We're back. My, what a day."

Mymblemamma appeared down the staircase, a tired smile on her own face.  
"Good evening, Too-ticky. Sit down, sit down. I've been told you were with a great party of volunteers!"

"Yes..." said Too-ticky, her smile faltering slightly. Her eyes were fixed on a point just beside the broke television set. "They've all gone home now. No luck, I'm afraid."

"Ah, well," Mymblemamma drew out a chair and hurried over to the kitchen unit. "Tea? Who's this other lovely fellow?"

"This is Nestor," said Bangle, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "He's the brains, and I'm the brawn. Right?"

Nestor batted her away and rubbed at the sore bit on his shoulder blade. "Good evening, Mymble. Pleasure to meet you."

"And the same to you. Why don't you all sit down and rest your legs? I'll make you all a fresh cup of tea. Bangle, would you be a dear and give me a hand?"

Too-ticky sat down next to Moomin, but there was something off about her expression. Her eyes never left the other side of the room.  
Nestor sat beside Bangle's seat, a good distance away from Snufkin. He turned his snout to Milken, who gave him a shy smile. They greeted each other and introduced themselves in hushed voices; and soon enough, Bangle set fluidly down a steaming cup of tea for each guest, using her excellent waitressing skills.  
Soon everybody was sitting, and the atmosphere was only a little less tense than it had been before the other two had arrived. Nestor spoke for around half an hour about the goings-on of the day, detailing the detours around the villages and the forests that it sat by. From what he retold, it seemed that most of the creatures were asleep if not all. Too-ticky nodded here and there, but her jaw was tense and her teeth were grinding ever so slightly.  
She kept glancing back to the living area.

Eventually she spoke. Too-ticky picked up the page in the middle of the table when the conversation had fallen silent, and she shook it open. "What's this?"

"A ghost letter," said Mymblemamma wearily, shaking her head. "The kiddies are obsessed with the occult all of a sudden! Couldn't tell you why. The letters are part of an elaborate game they've strung together."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," said Snufkin, scratching the fur on his nose. "They seem to think there's a ghost in the house. Won't stop bothering us about it."

Too-ticky paused heavily, letter in paw.  
She frowned as if something obvious had suddenly dawned on her.  
She looked at Snufkin, then at Mymblemamma, and then at Moomin.  
And then, she set the piece of paper down on the table, and turned around in her seat, facing the living area.

"Hello?"

Everybody watched her, perplexed. Bangle and Moomin exchanged glances. Snufkin raised his eyebrows. Nestor tried to squint at where Too-ticky was staring.

"Yes, you."

"Too-ticky?" said Moomin, uncertainly. Too-ticky raised her paw to quiet him. What was she staring at? What was going on?

"I see you. Come here."

Nobody said a word. They watched her extend and outstretch her paws, holding them out to the air. It was only when a half-empty glass on the rug was pushed over by thin air did Mymblemamma jump in her seat, and clutch at her chest. She let out a little scream, and Snufkin stood up very suddenly. "What on earth-"  
Too-ticky's paws moved ever so slightly, as if somebody had taken them in their own. She gasped, and squeezed her fingers over the air. "Oh, lord! Is- is it you? I can't quite see-!"  
Something thumped softly again and again against the ground; not unlike a tail, wagging in joy. Snufkin was pulling at his scarf so that it squeezed almost painfully around his neck. "Who is it? Who is it, Too-ticky?"

Too-ticky drew out her right paw, gently; and waved it about in the air until it collided with something. She patted it. "Joxter? Is this you?"

Everybody gasped.  
Whatever it was, it did not move; and the thumping stopped abruptly. Mymblemamma stood up very quickly and rushed around the table, very nearly knocking Snufkin out of the way. She pressed into Too-ticky's side, who guided her paw to meet with the invisible one. Mymblemamma closed both around it, and fat, pearly tears began to well in her eyes.

"Joxter. Do you recognise me?"

The thumping started again. Everybody watched with eyes as wide as saucers as she doubled over, the tears falling freely like great rivers. Her shoulders shook ever so slightly, and she pulled the air into a hug that would have crushed a man. "It's him! He's invisible!"

There was a racket. Everybody simultaneously leapt to their feet and crowded round, yet keeping their paws to themselves as if they might burn them.

"Joxter, Joxter, my darling," Mymblemamma cried, rubbing circles into the back of the invisible man. The sides of her red dress were creased as if two arms were wrapping themselves around her. "I don't believe it. I don't believe it, you've been here this whole time!"

"They weren't lying," Snufkin mumbled, looking as if somebody had just hit him over the head with his own frying pan. "The children. They weren't lying. He's alive. He's alive!"

Bangle swiftly pulled out a chair, and Mymblemamma gently pushed Joxter into it. The cushion indeed sagged; and the thumping continued on, only faster now. And when he reached out, everybody could see that his paws were coming back- his dark, fuzzy fingertips were now visible, and they touched his wife's face ever so softly.

Snufkin didn't think he could have ever imagined that his father could have gone invisible. He watched them give him a cup of lukewarm tea, brush his see-through hair back, give each other an armful trying to make as much breathing space as possible for him. Mymblemamma talked to him and kept a paw in her own at all times. It seemed her voice, and her voice alone, could pull back the fur of his fingers an inch at a time the more she spoke.

"How did this happen?" she whispered to him, still crying silently. "What happened to you? Who did this?"

Joxter said nothing. He could only sit and wag his tail, own voice gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol i have to pee


	18. A Present

"Now, double the stitches. You know how to do that."

"Okay."

"Don't pull so hard."

Snufkin pulled on the red wool as hard as he could. Nestor shook his head and shrugged, turning back to his own needles. "Fine, do what you like. Ruin the hat for all I care."

Snufkin did not want to ruin the hat. After hours and hours of repeating the dreadful mantra _knit one, purl one!_ he was very nearly finished, having knitted all of the brim and crown on his own; and aside from dropping a lot of stitches here and there (to capture that motheaten look, of course) it looked pretty good. He sighed heavily, and pawed at the ball of wool that sat between them on the sofa.  
Nestor was crocheting. He had mumbled something about a catherine wheel stitch before sitting down to give Snufkin a bit of mentoring; and out of the corner of his eye, Snufkin had to say that he was rather impressed by the patterned fabric that spilled from the needles. He wasn't entirely sure what Nestor was making, but it looked beautiful even if it was still a little shapeless. They sat for another few moments together, silent and stiff except for the needles that clicked against each other maddeningly every other second.

He doubled the stitches, finished it off, and picked up the big, blue plastic sewing pin. Nestor glanced at it. "Are you going to sew it together now?"

"Yes," Snufkin muttered, fumbling with the scissors.

"Alright. Do as I've told you and sew from the inside out."

"I know! I've sewn things before!"

"Well..." Nestor gave Snufkin's tattered outfit a skeptical look up and down before turning back to his paws. "Whatever. Sure you have."

 _I'll sew your mouth shut_ , he thought angrily, squinting at the blurry needle's eye. _No, I'll make sure to kiss Moomintroll in front of you._

It was January. The skies were getting ever so lighter with every passing day, but only by a little bit. Three weeks had passed since the revelation of the Joxter's whereabouts, having everybody collectively smacked their palms against their foreheads and all like it... Snufkin in particular had been angry with himself for being so insolent. He should have known much better not to listen to children's voices. In an effort to make up, the kids were a lit a winter bonfire on New Year's Day so that they could roast sour apples over the flames and dance round and round late into the night.  
As for the Joxter himself, he was visible- but would only stay so, to their horror, if nearby the Mymble at all times. It seemed she was the only one to jog his thick and tacking memory. His red hat, along with Snufkin's and many other little things around the mill, had been lost. It was a given that he had taken them, and they weren't ever recovered. Of little china dolls, precise pages of shorthand and a small amount of Joxter's trinket collection, nothing stolen had ever been so valuable- but often times Snufkin would reach to touch his dear old hat and it wouldn't be there at all. Better than a lost father, sure- but it was something he had owned since he was a child. He missed it sorely.

Joxter hung onto Mymblemamma's arm like another one of the little children, and often smiled absently as if his brain was made of dust. His voice never came back.

Snufkin would sometimes be minding his business by the piano stool, speaking quietly into Moomin's ear- and his father would look at him from across the room with this unreadable expression; moving his mouth as if he could hear something nobody else could. Whenever he wasn't with his wife, Joxter would often smack the kitchen table with the newspapers and tear out little squares to scrawl into.  
Snufkin had tried many times to decipher what had been written to him in these little smudgy notes, but there were never any words. Only the same little triangle over and over again.

"It's his hat," Moomin had said quite suddenly, on New Year's Eve. He had reached over Snufkin's shoulder and taken the piece of newspaper, tracing the blue ink with his finger. "He's looking for his hat. I'm sure of it."

And so Snufkin sat on the sofa now, threading up a replacement. He held the finished product up to the light of the window, frowning- and sighed again, almost mournfully.  
"It's not the same."

"I wouldn't say he'd notice," said Nestor, unhelpfully.

"Thank you for your expert analysis," Snufkin said under his breath. He pulled the oddly stretchy hat onto his head. The point sagged a little, like a sleeping cap.  
"I suppose it'll have to do. Thank you for showing me how to knit properly, Nestor."

The winter creature shrugged again, a little shyly. "It's no problem. Are you going to give it to him now?"

"Yeah," said Snufkin, standing up. He rubbed his socks on the rug, feeling the static. "I'll go and do that."

He jogged over to the staircase and hurried his way upstairs, holding the hat carefully in his paws. Mymblemamma's room was on the left side of the bathroom, and he paused in front of the plain wood door before knocking.  
The knock echoed through the landing- no children thumped on the thin walls or screamed into each other's ears (as they were out with their older sister, Too-ticky and Moomintroll. Bangle, with the little blue book of poetry and an armful of bread rolls, had long since said her goodbyes to go and reconcile with the wife at sea.)  
Mymblemamma opened the door and gave her eldest son a warm smile. "Come in, come in. Is it done?"

Snufkin held up the floppy hat. "Yep."

He stepped over the threshold and immediately caught sight of Joxter, who was lying on the plush bed with his legs and arms crossed. He was staring at the ceiling and moving his mouth again. Mymblemamma closed the door behind her son, and sat down on the cushioned rocking chair in front of the wardrobe. She ran a paw over her stomach and gave Snufkin a pronounced sort of nod.  
He straightened his back anxiously. "Hullo, Joxter."

Joxter's eyes flitted from the ceiling to Snufkin's pink face. He smiled a toothy smile, and sat up eagerly on the duvet. Snufkin reached out and gave the red knitted hat to him. "Present. Since you lost the old one."

Even if his father couldn't speak, the look on his face at the sight of the hat was language enough. His yellow eyes widened almost comically as he took it in his paws, and with them so did his smile. Joxter pulled it onto his head over the thinning mass of black hair; and kept his fingers clasped over the brim, just for a moment more.

"Oh, I think he likes it," said Mymblemamma, fondly. "What do you think, Snufkin?"

"Do you like it?" said Snufkin, almost timidly. Joxter opened his eyes after closing them momentarily to stare at him, pupils flashing like old fireworks and jewels in the glass cabinet.  
He reached out his paws, and took his son's in them carefully.

"Yes," the Joxter mouthed, fingers squeezing. "Thank you."

 

*

 

There came a whistle from outside of the tent. Just a normal one, Snufkin's brain registered groggily. Not anything special.  
He was lying stomach-down on the grass, arms tucked and crossed underneath his chest. They were riddled with sleep, and Snufkin sat up simply to shake the blood back into his paws and register the surroundings.

Tent. Grass. Knapsack. Daisies.

"Snufkin, wake up! It's almost two o' clock!"

Moomintroll. "One second," Snufkin mumbled, scratching the sleep from his eyes and rubbing his face just to wake it up. Two o' clock! That was certainly a new low. He pulled on his old yellow scarf and turned to unzip the tent's entrance.  
Outside, the old familiar grass of Moominvalley was bright and blinding with the sun, and Moomin stood with his paws behind his back. He watched Snufkin crawl out with mild interest and a smile on his face.

"Aren't _you_ allergic to the mornings nowadays?"

"Haha," said Snufkin sarcastically, standing up on tired legs. "Leave me alone. I've been sleeping on a sofa bed for the past winter."

Moomin held out his white paw and took hold of his. They walked together down the river towards the Moomin-house. It had been odd, to see it again after what seemed like the longest four or so months of Snufkin's life. It only dawned on his half-awake brain as they walked up the green steps on why exactly they were there. "Is your family awake?"

"Yes," said Moomin, pleasantly. "We've quite the story to tell them."

"Ohh," Snufkin groaned. "Not before I've had at least ten minutes to open my eyes-!"

"Later, later. You've been invited to breakfast."

"I suppose I could live with a bit of breakfast," said Snufkin, stopping Moomin before he pushed open the front door. He slid his paws into both of his, and smiled a shy sort of smile. "I'm back home."

"You're back home," Moomin confirmed, lifting his right paw to brush back the red hair on Snufkin's forehead. His finger traced across the wisps and spots on his hairline. "Everything's normal again, by our standards."

"We must have pretty low standards in that case," Snufkin mumbled through a smile, nodding his head at their interlaced fingers.

"Well..." Moomin paused a moment, before moving his free arm to wrap gently round the small of Snufkin's back. He leaned in- a body of warm fur and care- and kissed him, soft as the words in his mouth. "I don't care. Let's go inside, shall we?"

Snufkin nodded, watching Moomin's left paw move to the brass doorknob. "Yes. Let's."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God damgn
> 
> I have le summer job tomorrow and its like 2am but i still wanted to sift dis out.. its ovah!!!! Baby!!?!  
> I licherally dont even have words to say how thankful I am to every comment, kudos and piece of amazing wonderful fanart I have gotten for this fic. I had NOOO ideaaa it was gonna be this long or have even like 2 per cent the amount of attention it got... this dumb little thing I made up on the spot the whole way through suddenly ends up the most popular fic in the whole fucking moomin tag and my baby ass dont know wtf happened !!!!! You guys are such legends, i love u all, this was a blast, i hope u enjoyed it :,) Slán !!!!!


	19. Papa Is Always Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a bonus chapter for Noah, who wanted to read about the woodies' annual play !!!!!!!  
> Noah if ur reading this you are SWAGGY

Each woodie stood at varying heights in a neat little line on the empty stage. They either stared carefully at the sky or directly at Moomintroll, who sat in the uncomfortable plastic chairs out in the field with his legs crossed. One of his sweaty paws were clamped between his knees; the other holding a piece of blank paper, which he nervously fanned his snout with.  
Snufkin pointed at the first woodie. "... And in order of appearance- there is Isabelle, Nickle, Roger, Blathnaid, Dandelion, Cromwell, Emma, Blue, Napoleon, Síog, Eartha, Fern, Wallace, Dick, Curtain, Little Misabel, Alice, Toast, Frog, Andrew, Pomegranate, Billy, Frosty and Lad."

Moomin blinked stupidly, feeling the brain in his head whirring at the profound amount of names to remember. Each woodie, all of which wearing an individual colourful stage-costume, jumped a bit in excitement at the mention of their names and had a little smile to themselves. It was really quite adorable.  
Spruce Creek was not as cold as Moomin had been anticipating- in fact, the late January sun was surprisingly beating down on them hard. If it weren't for the wind, he was sure he would be overheating.  
Snufkin sat beside him in the crowd of plastic chairs, with his arms folded and his pipe sticking out of his smile. To the other person, anybody could have seen the two and assume the innocent. They were sitting at a respectable distance, and were both avoiding the other's gaze. Yet... underneath their legs, their tails were curled around each other where nobody could see. Moomin flicked his tuft over the exposed skin of Snufkin's ankle, which made him start ever so slightly.

One of the woodies put their paws up. Snufkin nodded at them. "Yes, Napoleon?"

"Hi, Moomin!" said Napoleon, tugging at his green hair excitedly.

Moomin smiled back at him. "Hello!"

Another put their hand up. Snufkin nodded at them next. "Yes, Dandelion?"

"Hi, Moomin!"

Moomin gave her a smile next, and laughed at the repetition. "Oh dear, am I so popular?"

"I swear..." said Snufkin, pulling his pipe from his mouth and blowing black smoke from an exasperated smile. "Yes, Frog?"

The woodie in question put their paw down. "Hi, Moomin!" Frog repeated, bouncing on the balls of their feet. Snufkin shook his head and held his own paws up. "Alright, alright, enough!" Laughter rippled through the group of children, and Frog covered their mouth with their palm.  
Snufkin gave Moomin a look of lazy content, the tip of his tail touching his foot lightly. "Aren't we so glad that you've come to watch the play, children?"

The children agreed together. The littlest woodie put their paw up shyly, and was given a nod from their papa.  
"Where's your hat?"

Snufkin absently patted the top of his head. "Er... it's gone on holiday."

They giggled. Frog spoke up loudly. "Moomin, will you draw us pictures afterwards? Papa told us in his letters that you're a very talented artist."

Snufkin's face went as red as the stage-curtains. He rolled up his newspaper and held it like a police baton over his head, play-threatening the children. "Okay, stop embarrassing your poor father and try to begin with the show. It's what we've come all this way to see, my lovely girls and boys performing for their lives under the lights!"

One of the little woodies was dressed in the same sort of green ensemble as Snufkin. On his head there lay a very large red mushroom, whether it be fake or real Moomin wasn't sure. He did look very sweet, however. He hopped from one foot to the other, making a clacking noise against the stage with his steel-toed boots.  
"See, one of them is dressed up as you!" Moomin whispered, giving Snufkin an amused look. "Are you the starring role?"

"Oh no, that Wallace is always wearing those things," said Snufkin. "Couldn't tell you why. If he weren't named already we would have called him Snuff."

"Why, if that isn't adorable!"

A figure appeared on the other side of the stage, wielding large broomstick. "Alright! Everybody backstage, the play must start at 7pm on the spot! I'm sure the patrons shall show up soon. You there, Moomintroll. Do you recognise me?"

Moomin blinked at the woman who was now sweeping the children to the sidelines. She wore a large purple dress, and a peacock feather in her hat.  
"Yes, hello. You're Emma."

One of the woodies frowned at him. "That's _my_ name."

"Shoo!" said the older Emma, batting at her stripy jester's hat with the broom. "Quickly! And I suppose you remember me, Snufkin; even if you do only manage to visit once a year."

"I visited twice last year! Once in January, the other in April. Didn't I bring books and charts and shoelaces?"

Emma shook her head so that the feathers swished around her glasses.  
"Shoelaces! And what are children to do with shoelaces, foolish boy? Half of them don't even wear socks!"

He shrugged and blew the long red hair out of his eyes. "They have imagination, do they not?"

"They certainly do," she said, darkly. "Just you wait and see."

After around half an hour of talking quietly to each other in the front row, a few other winter creatures had gathered round shyly to sit next to Moomin and Snufkin in the audience. Not a lot showed up, as usual- only around six or seven, all wearing jumpers and felt coats and solemn expressions. One man, in a navy suit and a hat that slipped over the eyes, sat next to Moomin and jumped upon being addressed to.

"Hello!" Moomin had said, sticking out a paw. "Come to watch the show, I suppose?"

"Yes," said the man in a very deep voice, shaking Moomin's paw up and down a little slower than necessary. "I come every year. Hello, Snufkin."

Snufkin leaned over and shook their paws together. "Hi, Detective. How's the wife?"

The detective gave the red curtains a hard look. "Dead. Caught her braid in the tractor wheels."

There was a pause, in which the two of them froze ever so slightly.  
"Oh," Snufkin eventually mumbled, sitting back into his seat. He automatically felt about his head for the lost hat. "Sorry to hear of it."

Soon enough the lights on stage were lit; and one of the children stuck their head out of the curtain slip to step out in front of the crowd. He was wearing a plain shirt, no costume. "Good evening," he shouted, holding his tail behind his back. Snufkin clasped his own fingers together, and whispered, "That's it, Roger!"  
Moomin merely smiled to himself and watched.

"Tonight we have a special show based off of one of our Papa's stories," Roger continued. "In which we tell you the tale of Snufkin's life and how he came to meet his very best friend, Moomintroll."

"Ah!" Moomin clutched at his heart and grinned, "That's me!"

"It's a fabulous story of bravery and the nomadic dream; and you must remember that all of this is true, however fantastic it may sound. Let's start at the beginning!"  
The curtains were drawn back to reveal one of the smallest woodies sitting in the middle of the stage. She held a very large paper buttercup in her paw, and was wearing Wallace's mushroom-hat.  
"He was born from the snail spit in the grass," said Roger, glancing at his sister momentarily. Stage-Snufkin shook the buttercup and unfolded her legs, giving the audience a bewildered look. "He drank the morning dew and ate the crumbs fallen from the hemulens' elevenses. There was not much in his life, only the air and the wind and the whisperings of overhead creatures."  
Stage-Snufkin stood up and brushed the pretend soil from her green leaf dress. She looked over to the real Snufkin in the audience, and waved her paws excitedly.

"Go back, Síog," he muttered under his breath, waving back.

Somebody pushed something very large and brown past the curtains, which Stage-Snufkin pretended to climb into.  
"Snufkin lived inside of a pinecone, before a toffle tried to set it on fire. Which was very rude of him, in my opinion. The flames were like great orange dogs, licking his legs and arms and burning the skin of his elbow clean off!"  
Orange crêpe paper was thrown over the great pinecone. Stage-Snufkin shrieked and crawled right out of it once again. Real-Snufkin tapped his elbow thoughtfully and turned to whisper in Moomin's ear: "I really burned myself on your stove, but that wasn't quite as interesting."  
"Understandable," Moomin replied.

The narrator continued. "But fear not! He has skin with magic freckles that have him immune against fire, the sting of nettles and the thorns of briers."

"I do not," said Snufkin, out loud. A few of the audience members chuckled.

"And so my home was burned, but I was okay," said Stage-Snufkin in Síog's tiny baby voice. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. "And although I was very sad at the beginning, I soon found a tent and set up camp by myself on the beach. In no time was much bigger and wiser, and I figured out how to cook pancakes and play the mouth-organ all by myself."  
She pulled a bright orange harmonica out of her pocket and blew a chord into its metal body. Moomin heard some of the woodies laughing backstage, and smiled despite himself.

She crawled into the yellow tent that had been replaced with the pinecone. The backdrop had changed now from a comfortable field of green grass to a barren stretch of pale sand. The image of the tipi-tent on the beach brought back a strong, real image to Moomin's mind; and suddenly he felt very excited.

"Wake up, Snufkin!" Roger yelled, running over to the tent and breaking the fourth wall to give its walls a kick. "There's somebody floating on the water!"

Instead of Síog, the older Wallace pushed the tent flaps aside and crawled outside to the painted beach. He turned around and stared into the sea, adjusting his mushroom carefully. "Where?"

"There!" said Roger, pointing at the far-side corner of the stage. Behind the cardboard sand dunes, there popped a head out in front of the oceans, followed by another. One of them was dressed in a white sleepsuit with a cushion stuffed under the front, and the other a fuzzy grey jumper and matching ears. Snufkin nearly made Moomin jump out of his skin with the sudden paw that slapped down on his shoulder. "Look! Look! It's you!" He doubled over in his chair, and he laughed and laughed as if he had never found anything funnier in his life. His eyes were shut and there came no sound from his mouth except for a hilarious sort of wheezing, not unlike the bellows of his old accordion.  
Moomin couldn't help but laugh as well, holding one paw over his mouth and the other on Snufkin's forearm as the two of them shook.

The woodies on stage caught sight of them and started to giggle too, breaking character. Emma could be heard whispering something desperately backstage.  
The actors went through the motions of the meeting and their fantastic first journey together to the observatory, the adoption of Snufkin to Moominvalley itself, and of course how Snufkin had come to find the woodies. They were still only very young and there were many flubbing of lines and accidents, but it was very entertaining. Roger kept trying to tell the others what to do in the middle of the performance.  
He stood now, regarding the patrons.  
"And so, as you can see, our Papa is a fantastic man with an exciting lifestory. He smells like hogweed and dandelions, and when he hugs you it feels like lying in the jimmy joes... but when he's angry, it feels like the stickers and the marram grass! But that isnt often. Papa is always happy, and he brings us good food and music and skipping rope."

The actors now stood in their initial line, paws held together like a big daisy chain. They smiled shyly at the stage floor.

"When he visits us, it all feels a little warmer in the air, like Spring has come even earlier than usual. And where he sits, there is a bed of daisies growing in its place the very next day."

Snufkin frowned at the grass under his chair. There were a few trampled wildflowers, but they had always been there. He gave Moomin a perplexed look. "I don't know where they're getting all of this from," he whispered. "They talk about me as if I'm some sort of legend."

"All daddies are legends," said Moomin, shrugging his shoulders. "Think of ours, and the adventures they got up to in their youth. Don't you remember sitting on our beds and listening to Moominpappa read aloud his writings?"

Snufkin nodded. "Yes, I suppose. You're right, I remember thinking so highly of Joxter when I learned he was my father."

Moomin hesitated. "Snufkin?"

The woodies bowed all in a row, one after the over, a big sweeping motion! The lights of the theatre flared, and everybody brought their paws together and started to cheer for them.  
"Yes?"

"Are you alright? ... After all that's happened, I mean?"

The actors started to jump about and wave, clamouring for Snufkin to notice their joy at another successful play. About more or less the same story every year, the same audience, the same father.

"I'll be fine," said Snufkin, before standing to give his children a great wild wave and smile.  
"Don't you worry about me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like.. "intern" at a primary school and the bit where all the little guys say "HI MOOMIN" like five times is something that happened to me when i first arrived agskdk :,)


End file.
